


National Health Service

by MezzaMorta



Series: Quartet [12]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Anthea (Sherlock) Appreciation, BAMF Mycroft Holmes, Blow Jobs, Boys In Love, Caning, Come Marking, Companionable Snark, Corporal Punishment, Dom/sub Undertones, Domestic Discipline, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Facial, Foursome - M/M/M/M, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, John Watson is a Good Doctor, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Mycroft Feels, Mycroft IS the British Government, Non-Sexual Bondage, Polyamory, Romantic Comedy, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Spanking, Top Greg Lestrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-06-27 22:31:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15694650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MezzaMorta/pseuds/MezzaMorta
Summary: The British Government is not very well. The boys deal with it. But will he be allowed to recuperate in peace?





	1. Under the weather

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Confession: the writer is not well either.  
> A bit of sickfic to amuse - with jealousy, smut and spanky time still to come.

It started with a sneeze in the middle of a very important morning meeting with the head of MI5.

Mycroft had called her in to discuss how they were going to cope with the latest round of spending cuts handed down by the current crop of moronic politicians seemingly intent upon running the country into the ground. Mycroft could never fathom why such short-sighted measures were imposed, when it was plain that national security, including social cohesion, relied upon investment and sensible administration.

Though the Civil Service did its best to work around every imposition of the myopic cretins the public insisted upon voting for, they could not always counteract the withdrawal of vital funds. Contrary to his brother’s conviction, Mycroft was not actually the entirety of the British Government, and he had to go to greater lengths every year to manipulate resources to keep the country safe.

He was tired and rundown, as close to the end of his tether as he could remember being. He was operating on four hours sleep a night if he was lucky, and had hardly had any quality time with his partners, which made him utterly miserable. He was under-nourished, under-appreciated, and now, under the weather.

By midday he had a migraine. By 3pm, he had a sore throat and the shivers. By 5pm, he was prepared to start considering the idea that he might not be very well.

At 6pm, Anthea walked in to the office. She’d had enough.

“Sir, I’ve called your car. You’re going home,” she said, briskly.

Mycroft bristled at the high-handed tone and frowned at her with all the authority he could muster.

“I still have two operational files to sign off, an excoriating letter to writer to that bloody idiot in the Foreign Office, and three sets of new deep-cover case notes to review. I am going nowhere until they are complete. Kindly go back to your desk.”

Anthea rolled her eyes. _Men_.

“No, sir. I’m afraid not. You’re not well.”

“Anthea, do not interfere with my work. I am perfectly well.”

He was betrayed by a well-timed sneeze, and he frowned with comic displeasure at his own traitorous body.

Anthea gave him a smug smile.

“Bested again, Mr Holmes. You are going home. For the good of the country, if not for your own good. Frankly, you are a security hazard in this state. I would not be doing my job responsibly if I allowed you to continue.”

“I am not in a state, Anthea, I merely have a trifling cold, which…” He broke off with another loud sneeze, and a telltale groan as his head jangled from it. His sinuses ached terribly, but Mycroft Holmes was made of stern stuff, and was damned if he was going to be packed off to bed like a child with the sniffles.

“If I am feeling unwell tomorrow, I shall work from home. I simply must get this done tonight,” he said, with barely concealed impatience.

“Pointless, sir,” said Anthea, with pleasant condescension. She hastily gathered up the files on the desk and confiscated the laptop with sharp, efficient movements. “Your work will be reassigned where it can be. I shall take on the lion’s share, and willingly. There is nothing that can’t wait until the resumption of full lung capacity and clear nasal passages. I say again, you are going home instantly.”

“I am in charge of this department, Anthea, and I will say what goes here, not you!”

“I would so appreciate not being bellowed at, thank you,” she said, frostily.

Mycroft scowled unpleasantly, which had no effect on the opposition whatsoever.

“You are sweating, you are barely awake, and you look like a revived corpse. You obviously have the flu, and you are not functioning properly. You need rest and recuperation, and I am sending you home. Sir.”

Mycroft took a calming breath. Or tried to. Unfortunately, it caused a minor coughing fit, though he struggled on regardless.

“You absolutely are not! I am perfectly functional! Give me back my laptop this minute.”

Anthea was riled now. And a riled Anthea was a dangerous Anthea, as anyone in their right mind knew. The fact he had put up even this much of a pointless argument only served as further evidence that Mycroft Holmes not currently operating at 100% capacity.

“Very well, sir. Have it your way,” she said, smiling sharkily. She plonked the laptop back down, returned the paper files, turned on her heel and clipped out, rigid with fury.

Mycroft felt momentarily disconcerted, then shook himself and resumed trying to focus on the words on the page, which were slightly blurring and making not very much sense.

Less than five minutes later, his phone beeped, rather more loudly than he recalled it beeping before. The noise seemed to pierce through his head. He checked the screen, half-anticipating what he was about to read.

_Get your arse home. Now. No dawdling. x_

Gregory. Anthea had informed on him to Gregory. Of course she had. Cunning witch.

The phone beeped shrilly once more.

_You’re not well, get in bed. Doc’s orders. Heading round to check you over. x_

John.

And then, of course, it beeped again. Mycroft winced as he checked the message.

_YOU STUPID DICKHEAD, JUST GO HOME! IF YOU STAY AT WORK I WILL CAUSE A DIPLOMATIC INCIDENT!! WHY ARE YOU SO STUBBORN? ARE YOU OK? WHY AREN’T YOU HOME YET?!_

Well, that seemed to put the tin lid on it.

Before he could press the intercom button, Anthea swept back in, eyebrows raised in anticipation of victory.

He held up a hand and mimed waving a white flag.

“I surrender. I don’t think I’m very well,” he croaked, sadly.

Anthea’s face softened.

“Thank you, sir. Your car is outside. Please don’t worry about anything. I doubt you’ll have any choice but to let yourself be tended to,” she said, eyes sparkling as she referred indirectly to his unorthodox domestic arrangement which only she was privy to.

Mycroft nodded and gathered his things together, wincing at the ache in his body as he did so.

“I suppose even the British Government is allowed a sick day,” he muttered.

“More than one, by the looks of you. Take as long as you need. The world will keep turning. I will make sure of it. I’ve been trained by the best, after all.”

He smiled at her knowingly, and left, wobbling slightly on his feet.

The car journey was rather unpleasant and did nothing for his encroaching nausea. After what felt like hours, they reached Hampstead and the car pulled up the gravel drive to his front door.

He forgot to thank the driver as he stumbled out, which was most unlike him, and he found he couldn’t even be bothered to fish out his key. He knew he wouldn’t need to anyway, and before he could ring his own doorbell, the door opened, and Gregory stood on the threshold with a look of concern shadowing his handsome features.

“Here he is!” he called back inside the house, then took Mycroft by the upper arms and examined him.

Greg tutted and pulled him into an embrace, frowning with worry at how damp with sweat his lover’s hair was.

“Oh, love, you look like death warmed up!” he said, sympathetically, and pulled him gently indoors.

Sherlock was standing in the hallway, hands on hips, glowering. Mycroft smiled weakly at him, and his brother looked askance.

“No, he doesn’t, Greg! I’ve seen death warmed up, it’s much worse. Though he does look ghastly,” he said, with a dismissive toss of the head.

Greg gave him the ‘behave’ warning look and was ignored.

John appeared, sleeves rolled up, with his black doctor’s bag in one hand, ready to work.

“Right, let’s get you in bed, gorgeous, come on,” he said. “Not how I’d prefer to be saying that, obviously.”

Mycroft didn’t even raise a smile, and let himself be led to the stairs, holding John’s hand.

“Rosie…,” he croaked. “M’ infectious,” was all he could manage to say by way of explanation.

“Asleep in the nursery, love. We’ll have to keep you out of her way. Don’t worry about that now.”

Sherlock bounded ahead of them, intent on being the vanguard. He turned back occasionally to scowl in his brother’s direction.

Greg followed as back up, in case Mycie lost his balance. His usually sure-footed, elegant gait was noticeably heavy and shaky.

Neither Greg nor John had seen Mycroft with so much as a sniffle before, let alone in this intensely unwell state. It was unnerving. Sherlock, however, seemed most unnerved of all.

In the large master bedroom, Mycroft flopped onto the bed, boneless and exhausted. He let himself be stripped down with no resistance. John removed his jacket, shirt and waistcoat, while Greg divested him of his trousers, garters and socks. Sherlock stood over them, watching with his arms folded, and an acidic little look of disapproval creasing his features.

When Mycroft was down to his pants, he shivered uncontrollably. Greg quickly and carefully helped him into his pyjamas, while John pulled back the covers and got him into bed, propping him so he sat up a bit with the pillows behind him. He placed a hand on his lover’s broad, clammy forehead.

“Burning up, you are, love,” he said. “Gonna need to take your temperature.”

Sherlock snorted. “Hardly the time for kink, Watson,” he said, sarcastically, “Don’t think he can cope with anything up the bum just now.”

Greg glared at him with narrowed eyes, tilting his head as though trying to work something out.

John rolled his eyes and rummaged in his bag, bringing out a digital thermometer which he cleaned with a sterile wipe and popped into Mycroft’s ear. It beeped and his eyebrows raised slightly as he checked the reading.

“39 degrees Celsius. Don’t need me to tell you that’s high, do you?”

“Feel cold,” said Mycroft, teeth chattering. He knew full well that a fever led to chills as the body tried to cool itself down, but he was in no mood to be scientific. He felt about seven years old, and just wanted to be looked after, though it wounded his pride to admit it. In truth, he was feeling rather sorry for himself, and his eyes drooped closed as John went about his business.

“Feeling sick, Myc?” John asked, gently.

Mycroft nodded, wincing at the dizziness when he closed his eyes. But opening them was painful too.

John retrieved his stethoscope and warmed the chestpiece with his breath, then slipped it under Mycroft’s pyjama top.

“In and out for me, love.”

Mycroft breathed rather wheezily.

John nodded at the slight rattling sound of his lungs, then palpated his lover’s stomach, checking for tender spots. “Any pain or upset?”

Mycroft shook his head.

“Feel achy?”

He nodded, too knackered to even reply. Then he sneezed violently and groaned at the full-body spasm this seemed to set off.

“You lie back. Poor Mycie.”

John stroked his hair comfortingly until Mycroft closed his eyes, grimacing in obvious discomfort.

Sherlock leaned back on the dressing table, looking thoroughly pissed off.

“What’s the verdict, Doc?” asked Greg, ignoring their youngest lover for the moment.

“Well, if he gets hotter he’s going to hospital,” said John, matter-of-factly.

Sherlock huffed with irritation. John looked at him disbelievingly and continued.

“Sure it won’t come to that. It’s classic flu. A week off work if ever I saw one. At least. Bed rest, fluids, all the usual.”

Greg turned to Sherlock. “Go and get a jug of water for your brother, Lock, yeah?”

Sherlock scowled and opened his mouth to say something defiant. At Greg’s fierce glare he thought better of it, and sloped off, dragging his feet like a sulking teen.

“Worried to bits,” said Greg, giving his own accurate diagnosis.

John nodded. “Yep. Need to keep an eye on that too. Think we’re in for a bit of acting up.”

“Yep. Trouble,” agreed Greg, grimly. “What do you want to do, love? Best to keep the little lass away, you reckon?”

“Yeah. She’s had her flu jab, and so have I, but we should err on the side of caution while he’s symptomatic. I'm off tomorrow. I’ll scrub up and take her to her Nana’s in the morning, and pop back. Rosie's the lesser of two whingers – you know Baby Bro won’t let me get away with abandoning the sick bay,” said John, smiling wryly.

“He hasn’t had a jab. Don’t want him getting ill,” said Greg, imagining the nightmare patient Sherlock Holmes would undoubtedly be.

“You can’t expect him to go back to the flat. We should all stay here.”

“Why do I have to stay here?!” said Sherlock, entering the room with the water jug and a whole lot of bad grace. “I don’t want to get ill! Why are you trying to make me ill?!”

Greg’s jaw tensed.

“If you go back to Baker Street, you’ll be going mental phoning every five minutes to see if he’s better. You’re staying where I can keep an eye on you.”

Sherlock scoffed with supreme petulance.

“I don’t need keeping an eye on! What do you think I’m going to do?”

“I don’t know, that’s what worries me,” said Greg, grimly.

A brief flicker of hurt crossed Sherlock’s fine features. John sighed and stepped in to give him a reassuring cuddle. A rattled Lock was a very oversensitive Lock.

Sherlock pulled away sharply.

“I don’t want to stay in this quarantined plague pit!”

Greg hastily ushered them out of the room to the hallway, to stop them disturbing the patient.

“Keep your voice down. You’re not in bloody quarantine, you’re just on hand in case your brother needs anything, so you can check up on him and not worry so much,” he said, as kindly as he knew how.

“Not worried, it’s only a stupid cold!” insisted Sherlock, though the upset in his eyes belied his protestations.

John rubbed at his arm.

“It’s flu, which is a bit more serious. But he’ll be fine. Just a bit rotten for a while.”

“It’s his own stupid fault for working too much and getting run down! Which is your responsibility, Lestrade. You’re supposed to pull him back into line when he doesn’t look after himself!”

They gaped at him, and Greg’s mouth set into a hard, offended line. John reached out with both hands, as though to separate them from launching into a physical fight. A symbolic gesture only, but it got their attention.

“Oi, none of that bollocks. This is nobody’s fault. Not Myc’s and not Greg’s. People get ill. And Mycroft Holmes is not superhuman, despite appearances.”

That was precisely the problem. A vulnerable Mycroft meant a vulnerable Sherlock. Mycroft was supposed to be invincible.

Sherlock’s eyes dropped to his feet and his lip went suspiciously wobbly. He quickly pulled himself together and performed a vaguely convincing expression of derision to cover it.

Greg returned to safer ground; practicalities.

“You two have the other room tonight. I’ll set up a bed on the floor in there, in case he needs anything in the night. As it’s my responsibility,” he finished, tightly.

Sherlock make a disparaging noise.

The Doctor ignored them both and returned to duty.

“I’ll take his temperature again in a few hours. Probably best put a bucket out too. Think it’s likely he’ll puke. And he’ll need paracetamol and ibuprofen in combination. Best method is to cycle it. Know what I mean by that, mate?” he said to Sherlock, attempting to distract him with medical condescension.

“Durr, obviously,” said Sherlock, rolling his eyes.

Greg looked confused. Sherlock huffed with frustration.

“It’s not difficult, Lestrade! Space the alternating doses by two hours, but leave four hours between doses of each drug. I’ll draw you a diagram. Jesus.”

“Watch it, boy. Seriously. I’m not in the mood to be patronised and huffed at, thank you.”

Sherlock grimaced nastily. “Let me know when you are and I’ll put some real effort into it.”

Greg took a deep breath to prevent himself smacking the sarcastic little bleeder. If he didn’t know this outburst of stroppiness was entirely rooted in anxiety, he would have had the lad’s pants down and given him six of the best on the spot. More than six. Twelve. Eighteen. Twenty-bloody-four. With no break between doses.

“You’re heading for it, love. That’s your last warning. Behave,” he said, with ominously quiet.

Sherlock fell into a sulk, and John went back into the sickroom purely to escape a potential scene.

They left Mycroft dozing, and a few hours later resigned themselves to an early night when it became clear none of them could concentrate on anything. They were a little up in the air, and no-one was really in the mood to talk. None of them were in the mood for sex either, which left them at something of a loss.

As they went to bed, in the guestroom they referred to as ‘Lock’s room’, more fuss began.

“Don’t want to sleep in here! Why can’t I sleep next to Mycie?! Why are you trying to keep me away? He’s my brother!”

“You were moaning earlier that he had the plague and you didn’t want to catch it!” exclaimed John.

Greg sighed tolerantly as he stripped down to boxers and a t-shirt. Then he began undressing Sherlock, who batted him away until Greg’s hand landed a stinging swat to his bottom.

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue, but saw the no-nonsense look on his lover’s face and thought better of it. He let himself be stripped down to his pants, and shivered theatrically.

“Baby… Come here. Give us a cuddle,” sighed Greg, pulling the antsy, half-naked detective down onto the bed.

Sherlock squirmed half-heartedly. “No.”

“Yes,” said John, hopping into bed and snuggling up with a yawn. “Knackered. Haven’t even got the energy for a wank.”

Sherlock blinked at him without smiling, but relented from his stroppiness when he saw the genuine tiredness in his hardworking lover’s face.

He moped, but went limp in their arms and let himself be sandwiched between them – John at his front, Greg spooned behind him - to be shushed and soothed. Their care offered some respite from the knot in his stomach, but he drifted into an uneasy sleep, seeing only Mycroft’s flushed, vacant face in his mind’s eye.

When John sensed Lock’s breathing falling into a slow rhythm and judged that the heavy eyelids were not going to spring suddenly open, he peered over their lover to Greg. He flicked his head to let him know the coast was clear, and Greg rolled carefully off the bed, moved round to give John a peck on the cheek and fondle his arse under the covers before sneaking away.

He made up his makeshift bed on the floor in Mycroft’s room, feeling like his personal guard dog.

The elder Holmes was breathing steadily, but noisily, in his sleep, occasionally tossing and turning with fitful jerks. Greg’s heart clenched at the sight of his usually indomitable man, looking for all the world like a schoolboy in Matron’s sanatorium, with his smart striped pyjamas and his furrowed brow.

The house fell silent as they all took their much-needed rest.

Just after one o’clock in the morning, Sherlock sprang awake from a shallow sleep. Something was wrong. An untoward, horrible sound had pierced through his consciousness. He extracted himself from John’s hold and bolted from the bed in a panic, running towards his brother’s room as quickly as he could.

Greg was holding the washing up bowl at the side of the bed, and Mycroft was being impressively sick into it, coughing and gasping. Sherlock’s eyes widened in fear.

“John!”

John came stumbling out in his pyjama bottoms, rubbing his eyes, but alert for an emergency.

“Get it all up, there’s a good lad,” Greg was saying, encouragingly, stoutly ignoring the unpleasant mess. 

John put his arm round Sherlock’s waist.

“He’ll feel better after this,” he said, kissing his shoulder. He moved in to do another temperature check, leaving Sherlock biting his nails in the doorframe.

Mycroft was hot but not shivering anymore.

“Sorry,” he groaned, voice hoarse from retching. He loathed being seen like this, and felt disgusting and humiliated.  

“Apologies for being sick are banned.” said Greg, tapping him on the hand. “Close your eyes, love.”

“Lock…,” murmured Mycroft. “Scared.”

Greg stroked his lover’s brow.

“I know. Leave him to me, doll.”

Mycroft nodded, trusting implicitly that baby brother would be attended to. He leaned back, feeling slightly better now the room had stopped spinning quite so violently.

John swooped in with a wet flannel, and hastily stripped the dirty pyjama top off to clean him up, then passed him a glass of water and some painkillers.

“Well done, mate. Done yourself a favour there.”

“Nothing like a spectacular technicolour yawn, eh?”

Greg snorted in laughter, and Mycroft swatted him with a loose hand and a disapproving grunt, though his lips turned up at the corners. His lovers exchanged fond smiles, taking it as a good sign, and the patient curled up feeling less delirious.

Sherlock ran from the room, and threw himself back into bed while the others cleaned everything up, including themselves. When they returned, they found him curled in a ball under the duvet.

They sat on the bed, frowning with concern at the younger Holmes currently having a minor meltdown.

“I know it’s horrible seeing your brother sick, but what’s got you this upset, sweetheart?” said Greg, gently, peeling back the covers.

“He… I hate it! I hate this!” burst out Lock. “Influenza's dangerous. Isn’t it, John? Millions of people die from it! In the 1918 epidemic, more people died than were killed in the First World War. What if…”

“Oi, no, no. No ‘What Ifs’. They’re banned too,” decreed Greg, shaking his head.

John spooned up to him and kissed his shoulder.

“Come on, mate. It's the 21st century. There’s no epidemic. I hate to say ‘trust me I’m a doctor’, but I am, and this is totally routine. You know it is. Nasty bug, but he’s a big strong bloke, and you don’t have to worry.”

“I do have to! He’s my… Mycroft.”

Greg tutted affectionately.

“Oh, darlin’. We know how much you love him. Understatement of the century. But it’s not like you to be so…overanxious. Can you tell me why? If you know.”

Sherlock ducked his head.

“No. Yeah. When we were younger… When he was fourteen, he got mumps and was bedridden for weeks." He frowned as he sent himself back to that place in his memory bank. "I didn’t know what was happening, just that he was suddenly ill and no-one explained what that meant. They wouldn’t let me see him! Everyone was too worried to tell me anything. I wasn’t even allowed to research what he had! The private nurse they hired kept shutting me out of the room, and Mummy kept me with her so I couldn’t sneak away. I knew it was so I wouldn’t catch it, but I just wanted Mycie, and I thought I might never see him again!”

Greg was astonished to find Lock sobbing, clinging to him for dear life. John moved into hug him tightly from behind, kissing his lover’s neck over and over again.

“It’s all right. You’re not seven, Mycie’s gonna be better soon, and you can see him any time you want,” said John, ever the voice of reason.

Greg hugged Lock fiercely, unable to bear any of his lovers being so distraught. He felt useless, what with one Holmes brother uncharacteristically weakened and monosyllabic, and the other uncharacteristically emotional and clingy. They had regressed, but he felt he had failed to step up, unlike John who had his natural professional role to contribute.

“What can I do to help, bonny lad?”

Sherlock turned watery eyes upon him.

“Take my mind off it, please. Please.”

“What do you need?”

Sherlock bit his lip.

“Hurt. Belt.”

John winced. Greg gave him the ‘trust me’ look.

“No way, not strapping you while you’re upset.”

“I just need… Take my head somewhere else. I’m not rational at the moment. Bring me back to earth.”

How could such a request be refused?

Greg nodded.

“OK, love. You turn over. No more moving for you.”

Sherlock looked up gratefully and turned onto his front. John stroked his back soothingly, watching curiously as Greg got up and rummaged in the wardrobe. He returned with a handful of Mycroft’s leather belts. John frowned.

“Help me out, Doc,” said Greg, calmly. “We’re gonna make him nice and still.”

Lock let out a sigh of relief, and John nodded. He took Sherlock’s limp arms and held his wrists together behind his back. Greg looped a slim belt around them and tied it off firmly, but with plenty of give. This wasn't about securing him for a challenge or a thrill. This was purely about anchoring him and focusing his attention on his body, away from his racing mind.

“On your side, love.”

Sherlock rolled, keeping his eyes closed, trying to focus on being rendered immobile and letting go of the heavy anxiety in his chest bit by bit.

“Just do what I say. Nothing else to think about,” crooned Greg.

When Greg ran a belt under him and round his chest, to strap his upper arms together, he relaxed a little more. Then even more when his upper thighs were restrained; then his calves were bound, and finally, his ankles.

John tested the tightness of each belt, satisfied that nothing was too restrictive.

“How’s that?” asked Greg, quietly, pulling at the arm belt.

Sherlock nodded. “Good.”

“Do you want the full hogtie?”

“Think this is enough. Can’t move.”

“Nope. No need to. Just lie there and breathe.”

“Can I have my…?” Sherlock asked, quietly, a little embarrassed about mentioning it.

Greg smiled. “Course you can. John, get it for us.”

John rummaged in the bedside drawer and pulled out a small pacifier-gag with head straps. He passed it to Greg with a little wink.

“Not gonna buckle it up, love. You just suck it until you’ve had enough.”

Greg placed it to Sherlock’s lips, and he grabbed onto it with a little whine.

“’Kay. Thank you. Go back to Mycie," he said, his words garbled by the rubber between his teeth.

“Yeah, I will in a bit. Not until you’re settled.”

“You can make him jealous that he missed this in the morning,” said John. “Know how much Mycie loves you in straps. And quiet too…”

Sherlock snorted, grateful for the way his lovers handled his idiosyncrasies.

“Such a good boy. All safe now," whispered Greg, and stroked his lover's curly hair adoringly.

Sherlock let himself drift away on a cloud of serenity. “Safe,” he murmured round the soother.

They kissed and petted him, exchanging knowing glances of pleasure and mutual warmth.

Sherlock fell asleep in his bondage, feeling more secure, and just as loved as ever.

In the morning, he awoke with full use of his limbs with his head resting on John’s chest. Greg had disappeared again. He looked up with a small scowl, to see his flatmate smiling down at him.

“Mornin’. Had to undo you in the night, for safety. I know you like it, but tough. You were pretty fast asleep - didn’t try to bite me or anything.”

Sherlock sighed as John leaned down to kiss him.

“Thank you for tolerating my catastrophising."

John nibbled on his lover's ear tip. "No thanking necessary."

Sherlock rubbed his cheek on John's bare chest. "Bloody uncooperative brain," he muttered, darkly. He loathed it when his mind betrayed him as it had last night. 

John huffed a laugh, all too familiar with temporarily dodgy wiring. "Tell me about it. Makes a change for you to be the one freaking out."

"Feel a bit more stable now.”

“Good. I’m going to get up and check on the girl. You go and check on the invalid and his guard dog.”

Sherlock giggled in spite of himself at the image, and playfully shoved John out of bed, loving it when John sprang back with a growl, biting and tickling at him to further shake him from any lingering doldrums.

When they finally let each other go, Sherlock barrelled into the master bedroom. He found his brother sitting up, looking rather worse for wear but no longer in a completely drowsy state. The morning news was on the radio, and Greg was sitting next to him, stroking his hand languidly.

“Ah, there he is,” croaked Mycroft. “Poor Lockie.” He cast him an affectionate look, easily deducing what had so distressed his baby brother. 

Sherlock smiled bashfully, and flopped forward onto his brother’s legs, kissing at them through the bedclothes. Greg chuckled.

“You’re a loony.”

Sherlock nodded contentedly and huddled in to his brother’s long legs, feeling the large feet gently kicking at him as if to reassure him of his presence.

“Mornin', gorgeous,” chirped John as he entered the room, giving his best bedside manner. “Time for my rounds. The ladies ward is quiet, so I’m letting Miss Watson have a little lie in. How are we all in here, then?”

He ran his checks, while Sherlock sat on the end of the bed and picked at the duvet above his brother’s toes.

Mycroft’s temperature was down, and though he looked extremely pallid and dark under the eyes, at least he was not sweating anymore. He was still achy and weak, and still spluttering at intervals with coughs and sneezes.

“Right, breakfast and showers,” declared Greg. “We’ll bring you up a bit of dry toast, love.”

“May I have some hot lemon and honey, please?” 

“Might be the first full sentence you’ve said since yesterday. Yep. We’ll sort you out.”

“I don’t think I can manage a shower,” the patient said, forlornly.

“Ah ha, another excuse to get me to give you a bed bath, eh?” John grinned. “Well, go on, then. I’ll scrub you down later. But no funny business,”

“Spoilsport.”

Sherlock smiled brightly as his brother became more recognisably Mycroftian.

“Can I watch the bed bath? Oh, wear your gloves, John!”

John snorted.

“The pair of you, honestly. Gutted I haven’t got my white coat, or you’d be all over me.”

Mycroft groaned.

“Oh, don’t torment a dying man, Johnny.”

Sherlock scowled at him.

“Not even as a joke, Mycroft.”

“No, dearest. Sorry. But you behave while I’m struck down by this ghastly ague. Gregory, don’t let him play upon your sympathies.”

Sherlock giggled at his brother’s attempt at sternness, which was massively undercut by his snottiness and the fact his eyebrows were currently a bit too weak to pull off any Iceman business.

“Right, come on, then,” said Greg, clapping his hands. “And you can turn that news off, Holmes. You can have the cricket, or Radio 3. Or Woman's Hour and The Archers. But no current affairs and no bloody work.”

Mycroft frowned, and Greg folded his arms, brooking no argument.

“Yes, dear. As you say.”

The rest of the morning was quiet. John took Rosie out to his Mum’s house. Mycroft fell back to sleep with Bach playing softly in the background.

Greg and Sherlock perused the newspapers downstairs, and ran through some secondary forensic evidence on the Met mainframe, discussing whether it might be linked to an earlier case.

After midday, the buzzer on the front gate rang. They looked at each other, frowning. They weren’t expecting anyone, and it was most irregular for anyone to disturb Mycroft Holmes at any time, let alone during the week when he should be at work.

"Wait, don't answer it."

Sherlock was instantly suspicious and disappeared to the control room. He saw who it was on one of the screens. A stranger. But all too obvious from whence they came. He scowled in fury, his mood plummeting once more.

Greg peered round the door, looking baffled.

“Any clues? Who is it?”

“Lestrade,” said Sherlock, darkly, “prepare defences. I do believe the Office have come to check up on the British Government.”

"Oh, shit."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, lovely people. Please do leave a comment if you feel so inclined. x


	2. Intruder alert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief encounter. Featuring jealousy, tension, and Mycroft's resurgence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Setting up for the next chapter - you will have smut and also some naughty behaviour. I just couldn't resist this scenario.

Sherlock raced to inform Mycroft of their unwelcome visitors, while Greg stalled at the intercom.

“Hello? Sorry, what was that? Can’t hear you?” Greg was saying, tapping the microphone so it made a loud popping noise.

Sherlock took the stairs three at a time, and reeled off a quick text to John.

_Intruder alert. Company in Hampstead. Best behaviour on return._

He burst into the bedroom.

“Government goons. Why are they here?!” he demanded, to his already-perturbed looking brother.

Mycroft winced and sat up reluctantly, every move hurting. He’d known what was coming the minute the buzzer sounded, and it was the last thing he felt like dealing with. He felt singularly unequipped and off his game, and it worried him.  

“Oh, God. The Cabinet Secretary must have initiated procedures. It’s the Whitehall Medi-Corps. There’s a protocol if I’m ever taken seriously ill, but it’s not for piffling little colds!”

He coughed violently and held his hand to his aching head. It was bad enough being seen like this by his nearest and dearest, but the notion of lying in his pyjamas in front of strangers was appalling.

“Great, the Secret Service bloody Flying Doctors. Stop them, don’t give consent to be examined. It’s your bloody house, and your bloody Office!”

Mycroft grimaced at the volume of this demand, and in anticipation of his answer.

“I’ve already given my consent. I signed a form to allow them access if I ever become indisposed. And when I’m officially on sick leave, the Cab Sec has the final word. Too much power for my liking, that man. We’ll have to comply and get them out as quickly as possible.”

Sherlock made an angry, frustrated noise. “Right. Going into lockdown,” he said, and stormed out to secure everything and ensure nothing incriminating was on view.

“Lock!” called Mycroft, as he went.

“What?”

“Best behaviour, please, dearest. For me.”

Sherlock huffed. “I know! I’m not stupid. I already told John that!”

“I want to hear you say it.”

“Urgh. I’ll be good. I’m being good, all right?!”

Mycroft blew him a grateful kiss, and Sherlock stomped across to the bed and planted a proper one on his brother’s mouth.

Mycroft batted him away. “No, you’ll get ill! And I am revolting.”

Sherlock chuckled.

“Yep. As if I care.”

He fled the room to initiate their well-worn security measures, galumphing down the stairs as noisily as possible.

“Deal with them, Greg,” he called, as he loped back into the hallway. “There’s no stopping them. Official Business. But you don’t have to make their lives easy!”

Then he secreted himself in the control room, to autolock doors, switch on cameras; and to watch and listen.

Greg sighed. “Deal with them, he says. Bloody hell.”

The buzzer went again, and he pressed the access code to allow the dark saloon car to roll up the driveway.

As if on cue, his phone bleeped its text alert.

_Warning: They’ve sent some slimy little quack round against my very insistent advice! So sorry. Cab Sec is going to be dealt with. Managed to insist no other personnel present, except one of our drivers. But you may be stuck with him for a while. Put Little Brother on the leash. A._

Greg took a deep breath full of dread, made a mental note to actually buy a leash, and answered the door.

There stood a conventionally attractive young man in his 30s, carrying a small leather case. He wore an immaculate suit, with impeccably neat floppy brown hair and an air of insufferable superiority, instantly identifiable as Public School educated and Government-bred. Greg had expected some old duffer in a bowtie. This was not good.

“Help you, pal?”

Greg loved lowering the tone with the upper crust. Especially ones he was certain were petty authoritarians.

“I’m Doctor Matthew Taylor. The Office have sent me to check up on Mr Holmes, since he was taken ill,” said the man, in cultured tones, perfectly pleasantly, but with an underlying sneer which jangled in Greg’s ear.

“The Office?” he asked, playing dumb.

“The Cabinet Office, Mr, er…?”

“Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

“Ah, yes. Mr Holmes’s, erm, partner, I believe.”

“You believe? I think you probably _know_ that I am, don’t you?” said Greg, smiling coldly.

To all intents and purposes, to the outside world he was Mycroft’s sole partner, and John was Sherlock’s. In a fusty, uptight society, they had to have some semblance of acceptable normality, though even being in an apparently monogamous same sex relationship was still the cause of disapproval and prejudice in some quarters. For all the progress that had been made, there were nasty pockets of homophobia everywhere. But it was common knowledge at Whitehall that Mycroft Holmes was shacked up with a D.I. from the murder squad, and that his lunatic brother was definitely sleeping with his blogger.

One day they’d have to make legal provision and get civilly partnered up, Greg supposed, though it was painful that the process would leave some of them with no official relationship other than in-laws. Mycroft and Lock had legal rights to each other as next of kin. However, their vast network of contacts and their general disregard for beaurocracy meant that in an emergency not even hell or high water could stop them gaining access to each other, and their wills tied everything up equally anyway.

The snide Doctor looked him up and down in mute appraisal, and Greg realised it was not latent homophobia that was the cause of his sneering, but that most British of vices: class snobbery. Another posh boy wondering what the refined genius Mycroft Holmes could possibly see in him. Greg saw a hundred hurtful assumptions race through the man’s head. A bit of rough; a good mindless fuck; someone to do the housework; a gold digger; obviously Mycroft Holmes didn’t like to be intellectually stimulated at home; obviously D.I. Lestrade liked the finer things in life and knew how to pay for them in kind.

“May I come in, Mr Lestrade?” asked the Doctor, “If it’s not too much trouble. I’m under instruction from the Cabinet Secretary.”

“For what? He’s seen a doctor already,” said Greg, blocking the doorway stubbornly.

“I’m sure you understand Mr Holmes occupies a unique position in government?”

“You don’t say? I hadn’t noticed. Thought he was a typist.”

“Please don’t cause difficulty, sir. I have what you might call a warrant, and a form with Mr Holmes’s signature on it. I’m sure you understand, given your line of work. I am authorised to enter. I must examine him and sign off an official report, to ensure he’s being treated to the highest standard.”

Greg bit his tongue against the ‘fuck off’ that wanted to blurt out. He restrained himself, knowing it was no good to cause a stir.

“Of course. Let’s see your I.D. and your medical credentials, then. I’m sure _you_ understand, given _your_ line of work,” he said, with just the right amount of politeness to let the man know he was really being insulted.

Doctor Taylor smiled thinly and presented his papers. Greg made a great show of checking them, and finally nodded.

“All in order. If you just place your hand on that pad over there,” he said, pointing to a black rectangle on the wall next to the front door.

The man frowned, but did as he was told.

“And step into the porch,” instructed Greg.

Again, the man obeyed, seeming a little on the back foot now, which made Greg feel a lot calmer.

“Don’t look so worried, Doc. It’s just a body scanner, like at the airport. And we have your biometrics now too. All just basic home security for someone like my _partner_ ,” he said, innocently.

Greg did a quick check that the coast was clear before ushering the man straight up the stairs to the bedroom. He noted the way his eyes flicked from corner to corner, eager to suss out every detail of the inner sanctum of the great Mycroft Holmes. A nosy bastard as well as a snobby one.

Greg knocked on the bedroom door to give warning.

“Come,” said a hoarse voice, but Greg could detect in it a semblance of the Iceman persona and was relieved to hear it.

The young Doctor gulped slightly, and Greg relaxed a little as they entered. Mycroft was sat propped against his pillows. He had neatened himself up, and was expending much energy in projecting a rather intimidating presence. He had donned his dressing gown, and seemed typically invulnerable if still obviously unwell.

“Ah,” he said, quietly, as they entered. “Doctor Taylor, is it? New to the Medi-Corps. Only a year standing. Oh, don’t look so surprised. I make it a point to know everyone who joins the service, in any capacity.”

_And Anthea emailed me your file five minutes ago…_

“Um. Yes, sir,” said the Doctor, with perfect pleasantness. “I hope you don’t mind humouring me today. I’m afraid I have to give you the full M.O.T.”

The snide attitude had suddenly dropped, and the man adopted an obsequious air.

Mycroft sighed.

“I have already been checked over by my GP,” he said, in a last-ditch attempt to delay the inevitable.

“So I understand, sir. But they’ll have my guts for garters if I don’t do my bit. You’re too important to the country to take any risks, sir, of course.”

Greg snorted.

_You brown-nosing little git._

Mycroft briefly caught his lover’s eye with a slight disapproving glare, trying to warn him to behave. He could see from a mile off that his hackles were up.

Doctor Taylor caught the look. He had taken the snort to be a doubt cast on the importance of Mycroft Holmes, not in contempt of himself.

“Yes. I see,” said Mycroft, briskly. “Best get on with it, then.”

He was feeling distinctly groggy, and just wanted it over with. Being poked and prodded by some upstart civil service medic was not his idea of a fun afternoon. All he wanted was a cuddle, a nap, and possibly a film later, surrounded by his lovers.

“Er, do you require a chaperone, sir?” said the doctor, tentatively, flicking his head towards Greg. “You may have supervision if you _need_ it, I don’t mind at all.”

Greg’s eyes narrowed, the language used not lost on him for a moment. Anyone trying to be genuinely kind would have said, “Your partner is welcome to stay”. But he might just as well have said, ‘surely a big, important man like you doesn’t need this lowly hanger-on fussing over you?’

Mycroft made a quick calculation. Gregory was jittery and annoyed. He and the young doctor had obviously taken against each other. If he stayed, there might be some kind of conflict, and that would only prolong the whole ordeal, not to mention potentially destabilise the Baby Brother scenario. He was deeply uncomfortable with this interloper in the house - even more so given that he was duty-bound to give him access to his person, which he hated the very idea of. He saw no reason to further expose himself or his lovers to this stranger’s scrutiny any more than necessary. Best kept apart, he judged.

He loathed the feeling of powerlessness creeping over him and resolved to exercise whatever sway he held, patient or no patient. But he could not fully do that if Gregory stood over him like a… Well, like a tetchy guard dog. As attractive as it was.

“Have you been offered tea, Doctor?” said Mycroft, lighting on the first thing that came to mind.

Greg’s eyebrows raised in astonishment, seeing the gambit instantly.

“No, actually.”

“Gregory, would you mind?”

Greg faltered, catching the triumphant gleam in the doctor’s eyes. Mycroft looked at him expectantly, urging him to do as he was asked. Greg shrugged, swallowing down the brief uprising of rejection.

“No. Fine. I’ll do a tea run. How do you take it?”

“No sugar, not too much milk,” said Taylor, as though giving orders to the butler.

“All part of the service, innit?” muttered Greg.

“Now, Mr Holmes, I have all your notes. May I take a seat while I ask you some questions?”

Greg left the room in disgust, resisting the urge to slam the door.

Downstairs, he put the kettle on and went to find Lock in the security room. The detective was glaring at the monitor which showed Mycroft’s bedroom. The young doctor was sitting on the edge of the bed, doing an ear, nose and throat check with one hand resting lightly and unmovingly under Mycroft’s jaw. Lock was almost shaking with rage.

“Woah, calm down, love,” said Greg, grappling him into a hug.

“That. Little. Shit,” hissed Sherlock. "I heard what he said to you."

“I know. He’s a dickhead.”

“He is _touching_ my brother!”

“He has to, it’s his job. Unfortunately.”

“Why didn’t you stay up there?!”

“You heard, got to toe the line. All over soon.”

“But – “

He was cut off by the sound of the front door opening.

John was back.

They went to meet him in the hallway, and could tell he was, predictably, also in Pissed Off mode.

“Who the hell is this greasy little twat, then?!” he said, instantly.

Greg realised Sherlock had given him a rather garbled lowdown.

“Ssh! Whitehall doctor. He’s upstairs”

“Off he fucks,” said John, barrelling for the stairs.

Greg grabbed him and pulled him back into the control room. Lock followed, scowling up at the stairs.

“Stand down, Cap. Can’t be helped. Let him oil his way round and he’ll fuck off in his own time.”

“I’m not having my patient interfered with. Or my boyfriend, neither!”

Although John knew full well he couldn’t claim to be Mycroft’s exclusive physician, it wounded his professional pride to cede the role to some no doubt very posh civil servant. But on top of that, he found himself riddled with irrational jealousy. Perhaps it was a delayed reaction to the shock of seeing Mycie so vulnerable yesterday, he reasoned. It didn't help remove the murderous feeling very much, but it was good to know he'd worked it out.

“Calm it, love. Let’s not make Mycie any more embarrassed than he is already. I’ve had the ‘keep your nose out, Gregory’ look. Let’s not show him up.”

John took a look at the monitor. “That’s the new quack?! Is he 12? You did check his credentials?”

Greg laughed. “Yeah. Know you're getting old when doctors and coppers all look like kids.”

“Prettyboy, too…,” hummed John.

Sherlock gasped and smacked his arm.

“What did you say, John Watson?! Pretty?! That weasel-faced charlatan?!”

“Ow! I don’t mean it like that, you prat. I mean, look at his tight suit and his touchy-feely hands. Right little tart. You may be a deductive genius, sweetheart, but let me tell you that that there is a doctor who fucks his patients. Begging to be struck off, that one. If you know what I mean.”

They watched on the monitor as a blank-faced Mycroft had his reflexes tested, and his eyes checked with a small torch. The insufferable Doctor's hand was now resting on the side of Mycroft’s head, ostensibly to steady him. But it looked awfully like he was caressing him, carding curls through his fingers ever so subtly…

Doctor Taylor’s reedy voice piped out through the screen.

“Gosh, you have very…unusual coloured eyes, Mr Holmes,” he said, in a simpering sort of way which Greg could almost be persuaded to think of as flirtatious. “Oh, I am sorry, that’s unforgivably personal. I mean it as a compliment, naturally…”

“I want him gone, Greg!” spat Sherlock, bouncing on his toes, working himself up into a fine lather now he’d seen the little cretin in action. If the man had been only slightly polite to Greg, and hadn’t invited himself to sit on Mycroft’s actual bed, and hadn’t been running his fingers through his hair, he’d have adhered to the Best Behaviour rule. As it was, the issue was null and void, and he was dying to rain fire and brimstone down upon the enemy in their midst.

“He fancies him!”

“No, he doesn’t,” said Greg, blocking the door. He believed every word of it, but was unwilling to light the blue touch paper. This was a delicate situation, and though he longed to set his boy to action, he didn't dare. Besides, Mycie would go nuts if they courted any undue attention or undermined his authority in front of an underling.

Sherlock whined and stamped, pacing round the tiny room, gesticulating wildly.

“He’s got his eyes and hands all over him! I’m going to shove his stethoscope up his arse, Greg! I’m going to shove every single instrument in his fucking briefcase up his arse, sideways, followed by the actual briefcase itself, using hydrochloric acid for lube. And then I’m going to cut his intestines out with a rusty scalpel, castrate him with a tin opener, and send his remains to be dissected at St. Barts!”

“Love, you’re going off on one…”

“And then I’ll individually nail every scrap of his dissected bits to Traitor’s Gate, and put his tarred and feathered head on a _fucking_ _spike_!”

Silence met the end of this lovely piece of melodrama. John grinned at him, dazzled as always by such glorious imagery and the expertise with which it was delivered. Sherlock was always hot when he was angry. John shook his head. No. The qualifer 'when he was angry' was unnecessary to that sentence.

Sherlock nodded firmly, satisfied that his point had been made. Greg rubbed and patted his back with understanding. He looked in mute appeal at John.

“He is sniffing round, mate. Lock’s right,” said John, shrugging.

“Yeah, I know he’s bloody right, but if I say he’s right, he might actually disembowel the little shit. Or at least say something we’d rather he didn’t, know what I mean?”

Sherlock looked outraged at the suggestion that he’d say anything at all other than “die in agony, scumbag”.

“Yep,” said John, rolling his sleeves. “Still, I want that creepy bastard out of here. And I want him to stop abusing his position before he cops a proper feel of my Mycie or shoves a finger up his arse and asks him to cough. That’s my bloody job.”

The snakey voice met their ears once again.

“Now, I’m going to need to listen to your chest, and then take some bloods. I think it might be best if you took the top off completely, actually…”

They watched in collective horror, as a frowning Mycroft began to weakly extract himself from his dressing gown; the telltale look of Mycie’s vulnerability was obvious to them even remotely. The intruding doctor stood and bent to pick up his bag, as though to offer some semblance of privacy, and also, it seemed, to show off his pert little arse. But then he turned his head quite deliberately, and caught Mycroft unbuttoning himself with slightly uncoordinated fingers.

“Let me help, sir, please…”

“Nope!” said Sherlock, rushing for the door, barging Greg out of the way like a whirlwind.

They bounded up the stairs, following on to try and prevent one disaster or another.

“Nothing to worry about, Mr Holmes.” Doctor Taylor was saying in an insinuating voice. “You’ll bounce back quickly. You're very fit. Very toned. I can tell you eat well and take regular exercise...”

Suddenly, John burst through the door at a pace ahead of Sherlock, arm outstretched for a handshake. The doctor turned towards him from his position on the edge of the bed, looking gratifyingly shocked. John grabbed him by the hand and shook it forcefully for longer than was comfortable, making the man rise to his feet to meet him.

Greg and Sherlock came in behind him, scuffling together. They halted suddenly at the stunned looks they received, not least from Mycroft, who was very much not amused.

“Hello, I’m Dr Watson. I've already checked him over. Got everything you need?” said John, with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Er, not quite. Bloods and urine sample still to go. Is that any business of yours?”

Mycroft cleared his throat and spoke, feeling his headache getting a hundred times worse. He glared at his lovers with extreme disapprobation.

“This is my brother, and his partner, Dr Watson. You have no doubt heard of them,” he croaked, through gritted teeth.

Taylor’s face registered recognition.

“Indeed. Such amusing stories. I never miss them, when I can grab a few minutes away from my work. Amateur detection. What fun. Are you Mr Holmes’s GP as well?” he said with condescension. “I would have thought he’d be registered at Harley Street.”

John ignored the many jibes contained within that utterance. It was almost impressive.

“Yep. He’s one of my private clients,” he said, with all the outward amiability he could muster.

“Ah. How many of those do you have, Doctor?”

John heard the inverted commas around his job title and bristled.

“Just a couple.”

“Hm. Well, the NHS does need people like you far more than the private sector. Very admirable."

“I’d like to be present for any further examination. So would Mr Lestrade. Mr Holmes’s other half, you know," said John, curling his hands into balls to stop himself punching the smarmy wanker's lights out.

Greg stood with folded arms, unwilling to give way this time. Sherlock merely growled and snarled like an angry puppy biding his time.

Taylor looked askance at him. Everyone in Whitehall – everyone in the country – knew that Sherlock Holmes was a brilliant but unstable maniac. Though he had heard the brothers did not get on, and wondered why he was here.

He turned to Mycroft. “And, er, your brother too, sir? Do you wish him to watch this routine screening? It is highly irregular, but…”

Mycroft sat up, coughing uncontrollably. He pulled the duvet up to cover his bare chest, feeling completely exposed and put-upon, and rather stupid in front of the assembled company.

“I apologise for this interruption. My brother and his partner are staying here temporarily, to go over a case with mine. As Dr Watson is by way of being my sort-of brother-in-law as well as my primary care physician, he was the first to check me over. They have been concerned for my welfare."

Doctor Taylor turned back to John with an impertinent look. 

"I take it you did his blood pressure, vitals?"

John's square jaw clenched at the undermining of his competence.

"I didn't take his blood pressure, no. He's got the flu, and no history of blood pressure problems. Blood pressure's always a bit higher with a viral infection anyway. I took his temp and got it down, then checked him throughout the night. Not sure why I'm explaining to you, actually..."

Taylor smirked at him.

"Oh, dear. Well, perhaps he hasn't had quite the full check-up he ought to have done. Now, please, I need to get on with my job.”

Mycroft sneezed and groaned. "Oh, God. Please, get on with it.  I don’t care who stays in the room, just take the blood, and someone help me to the bathroom. Then all of you can get out and let me rest!”

He collapsed back on the pillow with a grunt, holding his arm out in readiness, his face a mask of disgruntled irritation.

John sat on the bed stubbornly, while the quack took four vials of blood with surprisingly steady hands. John frowned. He’d wanted to see the little creep tremor and fuck it up so he could take over, but he was a cocky one; unintimidated and blatantly still trying to impress Mycroft Holmes.

When the bloods were done, Mycroft rolled to the side, and Taylor moved as though to help him, almost touching him. Greg stepped in quickly, eyes ablaze with fury.

Mycroft was tottery on his feet and rather dizzy when he stood up, so Greg walked him to the bathroom with an arm round his shoulder, and waited outside while he did the necessary. He chuckled at his lover’s sheepish return with the urine sample pot.

“No dignity, is there?” said Greg, quirking an eyebrow. “Even for the likes of you, Holmes.”

Mycroft tutted and smiled, squeezing his lover’s hand.

“Be over soon, Gregory. Calm heads,” he whispered.

He returned to bed with a groan, and the unwelcome doctor gathered up his things under watchful blue, green and brown eyes.

“I’ve been instructed to take everything over to the Royal Free now," he said, airily. "I'm to wait for them to fast-track the results especially for you. I've ordered liver and kidney function, cholesterol, full blood count, glandular fever, just in case. Very thorough, sir.”

“Pfft, don’t blind us with science, please,” scoffed Sherlock, sarcastically.

Taylor eyed him narrowly.

“Your concern is touching, Mr Holmes. Your brother is lucky to have you here,” he said, dryly, obviously still trying to probe the reason for his sudden attendance at the sick bed. They had barged in as though desperate to prevent him from proceeding. Why, unless they had some ulterior motive?

Mycroft bristled, but said nothing, fearing an escalation. Sherlock gave his sweetest, most offensively fake smile.

“ _So_ glad you were here to tend to the great big layabout. What a valuable contribution you’ve made to the nation’s welfare. Tell the Prime Minister he can have him back soon, though I’m sure no-one’s noticed he’s gone except the dinnerladies in the canteen. Oh wait, no, you don’t have security clearance to speak to anyone important, do you?”

The Doctor smiled sourly. “No, I’m sure you don’t consider your brother to be important.”

Sherlock gestured around the room with open arms,

“We’re all still here, aren’t we? No blinding flash, no imminent invasion. Anyone would think the government could function without him for a few days," he said, darkly and turned on his heel.

Mycroft closed his eyes, maintaining his composure for just a little longer.

The Doctor smiled winningly at him.

“I will be back later to sign the results off with you, Mr Holmes. I shall leave my card with you, in case you need to call me back for any reason. Don’t hesitate.”

Their hearts sank. They weren’t clear of him yet.

“Yes, all right. Thank you. Gregory will show you out.”

Taylor left without another word.

When the door closed behind him, hell broke loose. Greg raced upstairs at the sound of things crashing to the floor. Sherlock was throwing whatever came to hand around the upstairs landing. Ornaments, books, spare umbrellas.

“He gave you his fucking phone number!” screeched Sherlock. “And you took it!”

Mycroft did not have the energy to shout back, and he lay in bed with his hands over his ears to block out the cacophony which was piercing through his brain.

John stayed on the bed, scratching his head.

“You can’t be that oblivious, love? He was all over you!”

“Johnny, please, he was just doing his job. Albeit with a ghastly bedside manner. I don’t like it any more than you,” he said, distressed and exhausted.

John patted his leg.

“Yeah, all right. Sorry. Got right on my tits, he has. Green-eyed monster.”

Mycie smiled rather bashfully. “I’m flattered. But please stop Lock from destroying all my possessions, hm?”

“Yep, think Greg’s got that one.”

They heard a loud thud – the sound of two bodies hitting the floor. Then two bodies scuffling to their feet. Then the sound of one being bent over the other’s knee and rapidly spanked back to sense.

“Ow! Greg, I’m allowed to smash things when little sluts come perving round Mycie!”

“I know, it was horrible. But no more smashing, silly boy. Right?”

“Yes, Greg. Ow! I said yes! No more spanking!”

“Go and say sorry.”

“Sorry, Mycie!”

“Go in the room, daft lad.”

Greg pushed Sherlock in and he flopped on the bed.

“Sorry about the smashing. Greg smacked my bum!” he said, addressing his main issue with most emphasis.

“Poor baby, we had deduced that. I don’t quite see what you’re all so upset about, but I take it the smashing was necessary? I think you were quite restrained, actually, darling. And I enjoyed the crack about the dinnerladies. Very good.”

“Thank you. You can’t tell me you didn’t notice that he was scent-marking you!”

Mycroft tutted.

“I don’t think so. He was, however, unconscionably rude, patronising and mannerless. And a complete crawler to boot. Oh, someone pass me a tissue, please, this is just ridiculous...”

“Then why didn’t you say something!?” exclaimed John, passing the tissue box. “You heard him. Not like you to put up with that old rubbish.”

“Unless you fancied him!”

Mycroft blew his nose as delicately as he did everything else. 

“Sherlock Holmes, now you’re just being an idiot. John, dear, everyone in Whitehall is like that. They are all dead-eyed, humourless cretins. Well, not quite all. But a substantial number. I am desensitised to it, perhaps. I have to _be_ one of them most of the time, minus the cretinous aspect. And I crawl to no-one. Except you three.”

“Yeah, well, you gave a decent impression of a Whitehall Wanker, chucking me out to make tea for the little swine," complained Greg, hating how petulant he sounded.

“I am sorry, Gregory. Truly. I just wanted to get him out with minimal fuss. I’m not at my best. I absolutely loathe it! I feel…bloody humiliated, and I’m so tired, and I just…” He broke off, unable to articulate much more.

Greg moved onto the bed too.

“All right, doll. Hey. Rest up. Want us to leave you in peace?”

Mycroft twiddled his thumbs.

“Well, could you stay for a bit? It’s very boring otherwise. I expect we have an hour or so until he returns.”

“Happy to," said John, curling up with Lock. "Little nap before Doctor Dickhead comes back with his paperwork.”

Sherlock giggled and repeated 'Doctor Dickhead' over and over in different accents, before John clamped his hand over his mouth and kissed him quiet.

Greg brought Mycie’s head onto his chest and held him firmly, anchoring him to something solid after a stressful morning. Sherlock reached for his brother’s hand, and John put his own hand on top, holding them together as they napped.

Two hours later, when Taylor returned, they were back to normal, feeling slightly more balanced.

Greg showed the cursed Doctor in again, and left Mycroft to deal with him alone out of respect for his pride. He had no wish to contribute to any further humiliation, but he crept down to the surveillance room again, to find John and Lock drinking tea and munching biscuits as they spied on proceedings, which mostly consisted of lots of nodding and reading forms.

Mycroft was holding himself with a little more poise now, revived by a blissful sleep. He felt a little more ready to take on the world, greatly relieved the formalities were over with and that he would finally be left in peace. It worried him that the Office had stepped in so quickly, and he planned on a quick recuperation so he could get back to work and stamp some authority in the right places. Words would need to be had. They couldn't fall into a blind panic every time he was absent. Besides which, he was certain the Cabinet Secretary needed his wings clipping urgently, and Anthea would need his help to do it.

“Thank you, Dr Taylor. I appreciate your diligence in sorting this out,” he said, perfunctorily, as he handed back the signed consent forms and confidentiality agreements.

The man took them, smiling unctuously.  

“Don’t mention it. You're in fine fettle, apart from the influenza. But, er... I wonder if I might have a personal word, sir?”

Mycroft frowned. He really must seem vulnerable if subordinates were asking for personal words with him without signs of fear or hesitation. Being in bed was doing nothing for his stature or status; it gave a false impression of approachability which he resented.

“If you must,” he said, tightly, indicating that he really did not want to be quizzed.

The Doctor was not one to read between lines or take hints, and he ploughed on with self-aggrandising confidence.

“As a Doctor, I have to say, I'm not sure you’re in the best environment to ensure full and speedy recovery.”

“You’re not?”

“No. I suggest transferring you to the Whitehall unit immediately. I think we can do better for you. Our people can be on hand to cater to your every whim. I’ll take personal responsibility for your care. It’s a state of the art facility, as I’m sure you know. Much less…stressful, than here, I'd say. Sir. No distractions, no disruptions. I’m sure having your brother treating the place as his own can’t be easy on your nerves.”

A look that any sensible observer would have called ‘dark and dangerous’ set upon Mycroft’s face.

“Ah. You think so?”

The man, being neither sensible nor observant, missed it.

“I do. And, really, it might be best if you registered with a more experienced GP. I’m sure your brother’s boyfriend is competent for routine clinical work, but a man in your position ought to have a specialist, dedicated to your care 100%. I may be young, sir, but I’m very good. I’d be happy to take you on as my own patient.”

“That won’t be necessary.” 

“Please think about it. And, erm… Mr Holmes, I don’t usually do this. But… If you do ever need someone to talk to - or perhaps find yourself in need of more refined company, or just a younger man to share common interests with… You have my number. Call me any time.”

Taylor let this most unfortunate of all statements dangle in the air, little knowing it was the Sword of Damocles over his head rather than the brilliant bit of seduction he imagined it to be.

Mycroft looked down, nodded, and looked up again. He pulled the duvet off himself with a flourish, and stood in his dressing gown, to the full extent of his height, overcoming his aches and pains in order to deliver one vital, unmissable message.

“Mm. Thank you for your generous offer. Before you go, answer me this. Who am I, Matthew Stuart Taylor, of 42 Crescent Court, Pimlico, Westminster?”

The young man shivered at the use of his full name, and hope sprang to his eyes that his offer was going to be accepted.

“You are Mycroft Holmes. Sir,” he breathed, flirtatiously. "Head of the Joint Secret Service."

Mycroft tilted his head, as though examining bacteria through a microscope.

“Oh, so you do know that much. Or, I should say, that little. You may know my name, and even think you know my role. Which you don’t, of course. But you do not know, and will not _presume_ to know Who. I. Am.”

The Doctor’s face fell and Mycroft summoned every ounce of Ice at his disposal as he delivered his doom.

“But I know who _you_ are. Brought up in Buckinghamshire, I’d venture. Only child. Mother was a neurotic, paranoid, possibly a kleptomaniac to relieve the stultifying boredom of domestic life. Your father was a doctor in some grey little town, but never achieved what he thought he ought to have done. He was aloof, demanding, a petty-minded little bigot in a bowtie, and a perfectionist you could never live up to. You were packed off to some dreary private school where you sought solace in bullying classmates weaker than yourself, possibly blackmailing teachers having affairs, something of that kind. You fared averagely well, did the minimal amount of work, but got into Oxford because your father went there."

Mycroft drew a breath, but the Doctor drew none. Mycroft stepped towards him, continuing his quiet, excoriating tirade.

"You wormed your way into the civil service on social contacts, and you have achieved precisely nothing on your own terms. You are deeply insecure yet narcissistic, and you feel entitled to the finer things in life without having to do a damn thing to earn them. You overrate your attractiveness and you believe yourself to be a dazzling conversationalist, which you are not. To put it plainly, I would not touch you with a barge pole even if I weren’t already happily attached. And if you ever dare speak to, let alone insult - as you have done all day - my partner, or my brother, or my doctor ever again, I will have you on the next flight to Syria, where you will learn the true value of the medical profession and perhaps learn not to be such a self-involved, deluded little prick. If I ever hear your name again, if it is whispered in my ear, if I so much as read your name on a piece of paper, you will find yourself prosecuted for whatever nasty bit of malpractice I can hang round your neck. Or much, much worse. Now get out of my house, you jumped up, mediocre, middle-brow moron.”

And with that, Mycroft Holmes calmly got back into bed and closed his eyes.

In the control room, an audience of three were going crazy.

Sherlock was jumping up and down.

“Mycie! Oh, yes, Mycie! Gentlemen, boys, lads, _that_ is my big brother! I give you Mycroft Siger Holmes. Nearly dead on his feet with flu, and still the most eloquently insulting, most beautifully threatening man on the planet! In this and in this alone, I bow to the Iceman. Ha-ha!”

Greg looked like he'd been knocked on the head. “Oh, fuck me, that was sexy,” he groaned, leaning back in his chair, hands braced on his thighs.

John was looking round the room as though to a vast audience, eyes wide, mouth agape in a huge smile.

“Bloody hell. Look at this - I’ve literally never gotten a stiffy that quickly! Did you hear that? Did you see the look on his face?! Those eyebrows? That was like being at the Globe Theatre!”

“Oh, smack my arse and call me Sandra,” giggled Greg, fanning himself.

“Fucking _trade_ is what that bloke is,” agreed John, clutching his groin.

Sherlock couldn’t stop laughing and dancing a small jig.

“Big Brother - 1, Shit Weasel – 0.”

Greg didn’t think he could get over it.

“That evil smile at the end. Devastating!”

“Someone bend him over for me, right now…”

"Oh, Mycie, you mouthy minx!"

Greg shushed them suddenly.

“Shut up, here comes the victim.”

Doctor Taylor, flushed beetroot purple, sweating, and feeling two feet tall, was scuttling down the stairs in horror. Greg slipped out and cut him off in the hallway, opening the front door for him as he went. He waved cheerfully.

“Ta-ta, nice knowing you. It’s all on CCTV, so if you intend to make a complaint, I’d tell your family first if I were you, so they can say their goodbyes!” he called down the drive.

As soon as the gate slammed shut, they raced to congratulate the victor.

Mycroft look vaguely startled to see his lovers in a state of high excitement.

“What?”

Sherlock threw himself on the bed, and grabbed him.

“Ow! Please, I’m tender all over!”

“No, you’re sexy all over. Thank you, thank you, thank you!” said Lockie, kissing him everywhere he could find.

“What, for telling that little pipsqueak where to go?”

“Yep! But you don’t get points for deducing him. I know Anthea sent you his file! But still. Wow. Ten for style.”

Mycroft kissed his brother’s curly head, feeling inordinately pleased with himself. “Ah. Well, glad you enjoyed it, darling.”

“Oh, Mycie, you bloody wonder,” said Greg, joining them. “Never really seen that before. Fuck me. No, really, fuck me.”

Mycroft blushed red and winced as he was attacked on all sides, setting off a minor coughing fit.

John stood back and frowned. “Seriously, I just want to shove my dick in you right now.”

Another hacking cough met this statement, and they laughed, and passed their hero some water.

“I really, really wish I wasn’t ill…,” said Mycroft, longingly. His voice was breaking after all the effort of speaking. “Throat is really sore now. And before you say it, Lock, no, sucking you off is not going to help.”

“Someone has to get me off,” said John, shaking his head. “You just have to. I will jizz my pants just thinking about that. Every time.”

Greg nodded seriously, as John stripped his trousers and pants off. His thick cock bounced up and he gripped it with a hot hand.

“Yep, it’s an acute case you’ve got there, Johnnyboy. Too tired to watch, love?”

Mycroft shook his head, breathing heavily, and not from the coughing fit.

“I think I could prop my eyes open for a few minutes more. Someone please get Lock off my neck, though, he’s going to draw blood! I’ve already lost four vials today.”

“All right. You put on a show for us. We’ll put one on for you. It’s audience participation though, so join in if you know the words,” grinned John, as he pounced on Sherlock, and shoved him face first onto the bed, parallel to his brother. He turned with a sultry look over his shoulder.

“Greg, mate. Do us a favour.”

Greg winked at him lasciviously.

“Oh, I’ll do you a bloody favour, Doctor. Let’s see if we can find what’s troubling you.”

Mycroft reached into the bedside drawer and threw the lube to him.

“I feel better already, my dears.”


	3. Breakout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mycroft is an impatient patient.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter to get from A to B, with a bit of smut and a bit of a tantrum. Decided to make this a four parter.

Mycroft was not well, that much was true. But he wasn’t so far gone that he couldn’t get an erection from the sights and sounds of his lovers rutting like beasts beside him. The bed was used to a heavy duty workout, but as Mycroft was usually participating with abandon, he rarely noticed the loud squeaking and clattering of the headboard caused by the rhythmic bump and grind of three men rhythmically bumping and grinding on it.

His head throbbed with every wobble of the mattress, but now so did his penis. He wasn’t entirely convinced that voyeurism-with-influenza was such a good idea. If he came, he was worried he might induce some kind of embolism. But it simply wasn’t possible to restrain himself. Not with Lock howling into the pillow as his arse was filled by a very randy John. And not while John was biting down on Lock’s shoulder while Greg pushed his way inside him, pressing him further into Lock at the bottom of the pile.

“Oh God…,” moaned Mycroft, taking himself in hand. His head was fuzzy, his chest was congested, his throat was sore. But his prick didn’t have flu, and didn’t know any better. The big idiot.

“Oh, fuck,” groaned John, delirious and feverish for non-viral reasons, as Sherlock’s hot, wet channel clamped down upon him, and his own arsehole was opened wide on Greg. He turned his head to the side to gaze at Mycroft, eyes glazed as he was impaled from behind and engulfed from the front. Mycroft was snotty, and pallid; his nose was red, his usually sparkling eyes were watery and tired. But with his hair all incongruously neat, and his stripey pyjama top falling open, and his hand moving up and down beneath the covers - he was the sexiest snotty thing John had ever seen.

“Oh Myc, fuckin’ brilliant. So…oh, cold, and…clever,” he gasped at the memory of the elder Holmes humiliating that supercilious prat. He flashed back to all the cold and clever things Mycie had whispered in his ear over the years, driving his dirtiest ‘getting a dressing down from the Iceman’ fantasies.

“John-John, ooh, hang on,” gasped Sherlock, voice muffled in pillow fabric. “Need to move…” He wiggled to adjust the position of his cock, so it could rub more efficiently on the mattress.

“No, Lock, please don’t come on the bed, I’m going to be figuratively stuck here for another day at least! I don’t want to be _literally_ stuck,” exclaimed Mycroft, torn between wanting to lose himself in erotic bliss and preventing mess.

“’Nother two days at least,” huffed John. “Greg, hold it a sec…”

Greg’s hips stuttered to a standstill, and he looked up as though surprised to hear himself being addressed.

“Eh?”

Sherlock chuckled at fuck-stupid Greg. He adored fuck-stupid Greg.

“Let me up,” he griped.

“Oh, was enjoyin’ that…”

“Shut up, Watson,”

John moaned and pulled out, and expected Greg to pull out of him. But Greg simply pulled his hips back, keeping inside him, angling himself to try and batter John's prostate while he sat back in his lap.

John’s voice crept up an octave and he tugged at his cock to maximise the sensation.

Sherlock crawled to Mycroft with a toothy grin.

“Still shivery, Mycie?”

“Mm. A bit.”

“Covers on?”

“Yes…”

Sherlock burrowed beneath the covers, working his way down his brother’s warm body, peeling his pyjama top fully open and pulling at the bottoms.

“I’m not very…”

“Mm, all sweaty. Like it,” giggled Sherlock, licking and nibbling at his brother’s inner thighs.

“Pervert!” Mycroft called, holding the duvet up and scolding the top of Sherlock’s curly head as it roamed around his groin.

John and Greg seemed lost in their coupling, with John on his hands and knees now, being thrown mercilessly forward. They turned to see Mycroft’s face collapse into a devastated, desperate expression as Lock took him in his mouth.

Greg growled in his ear.

“Get on that, Watson. Wanna do you all…”

“There’s a shock,” deadpanned John. “You have to stop, oh, doing that…first!”

They moved to the end of the bed, and repositioned themselves. Mycroft shifted awkwardly to the middle of the bed to make way, clutching the duvet to himself to stop himself feeling a chill. His skin was oversensitised to temperature and touch in his current state, but Lock’s mouth was soft, and warm, and his tongue was lapping at his swollen crown deliciously.

John pulled the duvet up to reveal Lock’s bare arse, and he knelt to finger him open again. Sherlock gave a little grunt as he was re-stretched and entered, feeling the sublime satisfaction of being full at both ends. Greg completed their debauched scrum, standing at the end of the bed with one leg up, thrusting back into John, and putting himself firmly in the driving seat. He locked eyes with Mycroft as he fucked their lovers between them.

“Feel that?” he grunted, humping extravagantly. John threw his head back and groaned at the incredible deep burn. Sherlock opened his throat and let them push him fully onto his brother.

Mycroft groaned at the sight of them, feeling a tingling in his balls and a shudder through his thighs. He was on the verge of coming, light-headed and overheated now. The groan turned into a sudden cough, which jolted him, and caused Sherlock’s head to jerk upwards. The duvet flipped up and fell into Mycroft’s face, and he wiggled to escape it.

Lock giggled round his brother’s cock and manfully continued. But then the coughing fit turned into a sneezing fit, and the entire endeavour became a sort of human Buckeroo.

Sherlock was thrown off with a slurp, and fell forwards, squashing his brother flat; John slipped out of him and rolled off to the side to prevent himself falling off the bed, and Greg nearly toppled over backwards as John fell, pulling a bit too swiftly out of his arse to stop himself being knocked unconscious on the dressing table.

A chorus of ows and oofs filled the air, then giggling, grumbling and growling.

“Bloody hell, could have done me a mischief there,” said John, rubbing his backside.

Mycroft finally disentangled himself from the duvet.

“I knew that would be a disaster,” he said, Eeyorishly.

Greg lay wanking himself back to hardness.

“Nothing like a jolt of sudden terror to make a bloke go all floppy,” he grumbled, closing his eyes.

Sherlock sprang up undaunted. “Right. That was stupid. John… You still owe Mycie a bed bath, don’t you?”

John grinned. “Might as well make it worthwhile, you mean?”

They knelt either side of Mycroft’s exposed chest, their intention loud and revoltingly clear.

Greg snorted.

“Oh aye, there’s a thought.”

Mycroft licked his lips, eyes wide as his lovers surrounded him. He wiggled down to let Greg kneel above him with his back to the headboard, then looked up at all three of his men as they masturbated over him, racing each other to the finish. He shoved the duvet down and plunged his hand back to his own wet prick, finding an obscene rhythm in sync with them.

John took barely minutes. “Oh, Myc…! Fuck, fuck…” His eyes rolled back in his head and he gasped loudly as he came, splattering his lover’s pale stomach with thick white fluid.

Sherlock followed quickly after, driven to madness by the sight of Mycroft, flushed and submitting to being covered in filth and getting off on it. He bit his lip and teased himself, until his lithe body contracted and released a hot spurt of semen over his brother’s nipples and chest.

Mycroft was whimpering now, building up to his own climax as Gregory pumped away at himself over his face. Mycroft watched him, upside down, going almost cross-eyed at the sight of his lover’s meaty cock up close, and beyond that, his vulpine grin as he forced himself to the finish line.

“Gonna cover you, filthy boy,” Greg panted heavily, and then his hips locked out and he came over Mycroft’s face in a sticky gush, pulsing and jerking uncontrollably. Mycroft closed his eyes at the warmth that rained down on him, and he opened his mouth to catch what he could, licking Gregory from his lips.

His lovers crouched down around him to whisper favourite obscenities in his ear as he masturbated faster, channelling his thoughts into pleasure and away from his physical malaise.

“Come for us, Mycie, come all over yourself so I can lick it up…”

“Dirty, naughty comeslut, all covered in our spunk…”

“When you’re feeling better, I’m gonna use your pretty arse so hard… Oh, finish yourself off, darlin’…”

Their voices thrummed through his aching brain, and travelled to his core. His face contorted and he whined in his throat as he spent over his hand, his cock pulsating and splashing his lower abdomen.

His head pounded in the aftermath, and he closed his eyes, letting the endorphins roll through his bloodstream. He felt three hot, wet tongues licking his chest and face, chuckling at their debauchery until they were replete. He was dimly aware of his lovers fussing round him, mopping up their combined essence with tissues.

He surrendered to three pairs of strong hands, each of which he could identify immediately. A warm flannel ran tenderly over him; under his arms, across his torso, round his neck, then down between his legs. He shivered slightly, and was dried off, wrapped back up in his pyjamas, and tucked into bed like he hadn’t been since he was a teenager with the mumps. This was far less lonely, though the helplessness was no less frustrating.

“Aw,” said Greg, running his hand through his lover’s thin, curling hair. “Is he all right, John?”

“I’d say so. Look at that face.”

“Orgasms are nature’s painkiller, Lestrade.” 

“Come on. Showers, then food. I’m starving. Let him sleep it off a bit.”

Mycroft fell asleep as his lovers departed, suppressing their giggles at the unusual sound of the elder Holmes quietly snoring.

*******

The next day, Mycroft was feeling a bit better. Enough to join them downstairs for tea and toast, with plenty of lounging around on the sofa watching films, and drinking more water than could be advisable for even a dolphin, at John’s insistence that he ‘flush out his system’.

He felt distinctly more human, though still quite weak. But weakness was not going to stop Mycroft Holmes. Nor was a bit of a cough, and a very, very minor dizzy headache. And it didn’t matter that he had no appetite. It would be good for him to be a little ascetic. He could cope. He always coped.

There were things that needed doing. Important things. And the longer he stayed away from Whitehall, the more those important things would get done by goldfish. He could feel his authority and control ebbing away with every day of his absence, and it would not do at all.

Come the evening, he made his move. “I think I should be all right to return to the Office tomorrow,” he said, casually, as they half-heartedly watched a spy film they’d all seen a hundred times before.

Three very hard stares were cast his way and he steeled himself to resist their protests. He had a feeling this wasn’t going to go down well.

“What?” he said, innocently.

Sherlock scowled.

“Over my dead body! Or, more accurately, yours.”

“Sherlock, I am fine. I can’t hang around the house all week, lovely as this is. And you all need to get back to work too, instead of fussing around me.”

“Er, mate, you’ve only had two days off. You’re still fluey! No chance,” said John, shaking his head and chuckling incredulously.

Mycroft frowned. “Really, John. I am on the road to recovery.”

“Yeah, on the road, but not there yet. It’s too soon. You’ll set yourself back if you rush it. Don’t be stupid.”

“I am not being _stupid_ , thank you, Doctor. I am the best judge of my condition!” bristled Mycroft, offended at being challenged in such a high-handed manner.

John tilted his head dangerously.

“Oh, yeah?”

Mycroft swallowed hard. All this lying around being tended to had made him feel completely useless, and he’d had enough.

“Yes. I’m not casting aspersions on your judgment. I am simply making the decision to return to work.”

“No, you’re not!” insisted Sherlock. “You still look like a ghost. No-one wants you back in Westminster looking like that, they’ll exorcise you on sight!”

“Be quiet, Lock.”

“Why, is me shouting hurting your head? Is that because you’re NOT WELL MAYBE?!”

Greg slammed a magazine down on the coffee table.

“That’s enough.”

Sherlock clammed up and folded his arms in a sulk, but Greg turned his ire to the elder Holmes.

“Don’t you dare go back to bloody work tomorrow, Mycroft. I mean it. You’re not right. Take it as it comes, a few more days and you’ll be right as rain, OK?” he said, firmly but kindly.

Mycroft’s brow furrowed in discomfort.

“Gregory, I can’t afford more time off.”

“You can afford what you want to afford. The government can lump it for a couple more days.”

“But I have to sort out the ruddy Cabinet Secretary, before he sends more barbarians to the gate. Anthea will need my help…”

“Anthea doesn’t need your bloody help,” scoffed John. Mycroft glared at him balefully.

“I am not going to mope around the house for a week for no good reason.”

Greg stood up, meaning business.

“Right, zip it. I don’t want to lay down the law… No, who am I kidding? I _do_ want to lay down the law. And here it is: you are forbidden to go to work until Doc says you can. There. Done.”

“Gregory! I will not be forbidden from…”

Sherlock gasped at this uncharacteristic and utterly pointless backchat.

“Well, now we know you’re not in your right mind,” he muttered.

Greg smiled darkly.

“I think you’ll find I can forbid you. I think you handed me that power quite a long time ago. Overwork, putting yourself in harm’s way – my territory. I get that you’re edgy and bored, and vulnerable, but be sensible, listen to reason, and do as your bloody told. You’re not going back to work until at least Friday. And even then, what’s the point? Might as well take the whole week. I’ll text Anthea to get the lowdown, _maybe_ , if you behave yourself.”

Mycroft fumed, gritting his teeth at being told off so forcefully. His lovers realised they were witnessing that rarest of events: a Mycroftian sulk. Which looked like it was about to escalate into a full Mycroftian tantrum.

Sherlock winced, seeing a very unpleasant outcome ahead. But he was equally intrigued, and a little bit delighted at this display of defiance. It felt rather like solidarity. His brother persisted, intent on pushing it.

“Gregory, I realise you have certain, erm, control. I am not questioning your role. But when it comes to the security of the nation…”

“Oh, bollocks, they can do without you for a week. End of,” said Greg, drawing a line with his hands. He wasn't about to listen to very well-reasoned, eloquent, complete bullshit. Give a Holmes an opportunity to talk you out of something and they'd take it, even if they knew you were right. Give a Holmes an opportunity to grandstand and come the high and mighty, and they'd bloody take that too. Such things were very much not Greg Lestrade's division, and he was damned if he was going to put up with it.

“They’ll soon come knocking if there’s an emergency, don’t you worry,” said John, snorting derisively. He was pissed off about having his opinion summarily dismissed, though he understood that the pride of the Holmeses rarely let them tolerate being in less than peak condition.

“John, I can’t simply walk away from the job!” said Mycroft, sourly. “I don’t have the benefit of flexitime or part-time work.”

“Is that a crack at my professionalism?!” John sat up, riled and ready to spar.

“No, of course not!”

Mycroft frowned. This was not going as he planned. He had expected a little more respect than this. He was one of the most crucial individuals in government, and yet his lovers seemed intent on infantilising him. 

“Oi, pack it in, you two!” Greg gave patience and empathy one more try. “Mycie, what’s this really about, love? I know you’re not exactly enjoying being sick, but I thought you were enjoying our company at least.”

Mycroft sighed about being misconstrued.

“I enjoy it immensely. But I have responsibilities to fulfil. Which I am asking you to understand. I won't be withheld from duty. I'm not at death's door!”

John glared at him from across the room.

Greg drew a breath and exhaled calmly, though his jaw clenched in irritation.

“I hear you, I understand that you have responsibilities, and am forbidding you from taking them up until you’re healthy. No more arguments. I don’t want to hear another word about it.”

“You can’t make me stay at home, Gregory, I am not a child!” he said, in a very inadvisable raised voice.

Greg returned his fierce gaze.

“Do not raise your voice to me. You will regret it. This is your warning.” He would have issued it minutes ago, but he'd decided to cut some slack to his unwell lover. That was now looking like an error.

“I don’t _need_ a warning! And I am perfectly capable of deciding what to do for myself, including when to raise my bloody voice!”

His voice cracked from the strain of bellowing, and he fell to another painful coughing fit. Sherlock and John exchanged cringing looks.

Greg knelt by Mycroft on the sofa, patting his back until he stilled.

“Done? Right. Now, I’m not going to wallop you while you’re still ill, but as soon as you’re not coughing your guts up or weak as a kitten, you’re going over my knee, and _then_ you can go to work with a sore arse. And if you even think about disobeying me, you’ll be taking an inflatable cushion to sit on in meetings. I'm not having it, Mycroft.”

“Gregory!” whined Mycroft, sounding uncannily like baby brother. Greg set his jaw squarely and quelled him with a stern look.

"And you'll get it off me an' all, if you do anything to compromise your healing. Behave," said John, with a definitive nod. Mycroft blanched even more.

Sherlock giggled in spite of himself, clamping his hand over his mouth. Mycroft shot him a hurt look.

“I don’t laugh when you’re in trouble!” he huffed. He attempted to sweep elegantly from the room, but it was a tough look to pull off in a dressing gown and with a stumbling gait caused by temporary vertigo. Still, he went, effectively sending himself to bed without supper.

“Bloody hell,” breathed John, shaking his head.

Sherlock looked confused. 

“I wasn’t laughing at him! I was laughing at me. He sounded just like me.”

Greg plonked himself next to Sherlock.

“He’s having a rough time, love. All oversensitive. He’ll calm down. I’ll smack his bum, he’ll be fine.”

“Well, make sure you smack it hard. What a performance. Honestly. So melodramatic,” sniffed Sherlock, disapprovingly.

Greg knuckled his lover’s jaw. “Yeah, and you’re such a good boy, aren’t you?”

“I am being very good today, yes. Mycroft, on the other hand, is intolerably naughty.”

They let the storm blow over, knowing it didn’t do to crowd Mycroft when he was in a huff, which was the opposite of the approach required by Sherlock. Mycroft needed a bit of space to calm down and self-rationalise.

When they went to bed, Greg checked in on him first. He was sitting up reading a book with the bedside light on.

Greg smiled fondly at the sweet picture he presented.

“All right, lovely? Do you think I’m a horrible bastard?”

Mycroft put his book down.

“Now that is irrational, Gregory.”

Greg planted a kiss on his lover’s head.

“Ta. Trust me on this one, OK? Just be a bit patient.”

“Hmm. I fear I am an impatient.”

Mycroft yawned suddenly. Greg smiled.

“I’ll let you sleep, love. Do you want company in the bed, or are you still a bit too fidgety and hot?”

“Well, I did enjoy you sleeping on the floor…” Mycroft said, teasingly. “Go and get a decent rest.”

“OK. I’ll be piggy in the middle with those two. Shout if you need anything though. No wobbling down the stairs in the night.”

“Yes, dear.”

Sherlock and John appeared; John in his sensible pyjama bottoms and t-shirt, and Sherlock in his decadent, slinky robe.

“Has he been restored to sense yet, Greg?” asked John, cheekily.

Sherlock snorted.

“Poor Mycie. Annoying when you can’t have your own way, isn’t it? Perhaps a little more empathy on this subject is required the next time you think about banning me from something or other.”

Mycroft glared half-heartedly.

“Yes, thank you. If anything it’s only made me more resolved to restrict you. Out of misplaced revenge.”

Sherlock poked his tongue out.

“The sooner Greg gives you a hiding the better,” he said, breezily.

“You’re not…really going to, though, Gregory? Are you?”

Greg raised his eyebrows.

“When have I ever promised something I haven’t delivered? You’re getting it. Just not right now. It’s a stay of execution. You were rude and lippy about something you know better than to cross me on. It's for your own good, love.”

Mycroft sighed, still looking a bit irritated.

Greg ruffled his hair.

“Still love you though. Always.”

Mycroft smiled wanly.

“And I you. Brute though you may be.”

John clapped his hands decisively.

“Come on, stop hassling my patient. Let the poor bugger get some kip without threatening his bum,” he said, ushering them out. “See you in the morning, gorgeous.”

“Goodnight, Doc. Goodnight, little brother.”

Sherlock halted, then turned back, eyes narrowed. He moved in with feline grace to plant a lingering kiss on his brother’s lips, then pulled back and stared into his eyes, deducing like mad.

He grinned.

“Goodnight, brother mine. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he said, saucily, and slinked away.

***

Hampstead at four o’clock in the morning was generally dead to the world. Few of its residents had to rise early. Those who had to work for a living, in the City, or in Chambers, or in Westminster, faced a short commute, and lights did not start to go on until around six. Hampstead did not spring to life in the small hours of the morning. But on this particular morning, something was stirring in the dark.

Mycroft Holmes crept down his own stairs, fully dressed in a three-piece suit, carefully missing all the creaky floorboards and holding his breath, silent as a ghost. He had taken cough medicine to suppress his wheezing and prevent disastrous giveaway noises. He felt light-headed, and mildly shaky on his feet. But perhaps that was just adrenaline at undertaking what he knew was a forbidden undercover mission. It was a necessary evil, however. Work beckoned, and he was certain he could convince his over-protective lovers of the need for a little minor deception on this occasion. When they fully understood how important it was that he attend, they would relent. He was a remarkably intelligent man in his late-40s, for goodness sake. Such fuss was unnecessary. This was his decision, and he was sticking to it. They would respect him for it.

A small voice in his head, which sounded disconcertingly like Gregory, replied, “yeah, right.” His backside tingled, as though to remind him of the promised consequences, which was deeply disturbing, like a physical alarm system wired up to detect misbehaviour; he ignored it and continued on his way.

As he entered the hallway, he nearly toppled over with fright at the sudden catch and flare of a match being lit.

“Good morning, brother,” husked Sherlock, leaning against the wall as though he'd been lying in wait for hours. He lit a candle in a holder, which illuminated his face in a most uncanny way. “Going somewhere?”

Mycroft clutched at his racing heart.

“For God’s sake! Did you have to?! What are you doing up?” he hissed.

Sherlock smirked.

“I know you, Mycroft Holmes. Are you sure this is the course of action you wish to take?”

Mycroft scowled. Though his brother saw the doubt which flickered through his sleepy eyes.

“Of course. Do you intend to inform on me?”

Sherlock shrugged.

“Of course not. It’s your decision. I take it the car is waiting down the road?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll be in your office by 5am. Bit of an early start, even for you.”

“I couldn’t leave it any later, or I’d…”

“Wake Greg and John, and all hell would break loose. Yes. What a sneaky Mycroft you are.”

Mycroft glared at his brother’s insufferably superior attitude.

“Go back to bed. Some things just have to be done.”

“Oh, yes. I’m familiar with that logic. Sometimes you just need to be a little bit naughty.”

“I am not being naughty! I am simply a man going to work!”

“Didn’t have you down as a flight risk, initially,” drawled Sherlock, enjoying himself. “But you were so very reasonable at bedtime. So very casual, subtly leading Greg to conclude he should sleep with us and leave you alone. So very sweet after your little tantrum. It only takes me one look into your eyes, brother. You can’t disguise naughty thoughts from me. You haven’t had enough practice.”

“Bugger off!” hissed Mycroft, creeping towards the door. “And go back to bed, it’s freezing down here.”

“It’s actually quite temperate. I think it’s you. Must be the flu. Or the fear... Certain you're doing this?” Sherlock asked, one last time.

Mycroft paused, almost gave in, but then steeled himself not to be so silly.

He nodded. “I am.”

Sherlock grinned.

“Then I look forward to Gregory catching up with you. I wonder if I could actually fry my morning eggs on your backside when he’s done with you? I’ll use your cleft as a toast rack and dine off you, like a hotplate.”

Mycroft winced at the imagery, turned on his heel, and departed muttering resentfully about awful baby brothers, and overbearing Inspectors, and interfering doctors. His arse tingled all the way to Whitehall.


	4. Whitehall farce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft has escaped. The lads are not having it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So SO sorry for delay. I've sneakily added a chapter to stop this one being too long - it will be complete tomorrow, upon my oath as a pervert, now I actually have time again. Love you if you're still reading.
> 
> p.s. contains a silly callback to Conference, for those who remember any of it! x

John woke just after 7am, and instinctively reached out in bed for whoever happened to be closest. Sometimes the man you fell asleep next to was not the one you woke up with, given various nocturnal wigglings and bouts of insomnia. Lock was gone. He frowned, but knew the detective sometimes rose early if racing thoughts were keeping him awake. He rolled over to find Greg, looking peaceful and very handsome in repose, with a sleepy little half-smile on his lips. He huddled in close as his bloke slowly emerged into the land of the living, his deep brown eyes blinking to wakefulness.

John hummed a "good morning" and carded his fingers through his lover’s short, silver hair. 

Greg grunted. "Mm. Mornin’, hedgehog," he said, ruffling John's spiky bedhead in return.

John magnanimously allowed it for a few moments, then rolled heavily on top of him. 

Greg groaned under the weight even as he wrapped his arms around his stocky partner's back. They shared a languid kiss and their morning hard-ons played against each other. Greg smirked. The Doc was always offensively chipper in the morning; always horny, and completely irresistible with his rumpled mop and his stubble-flecked chin. 

"You were out like a light,” said John, nuzzling in and scratching their day-old beards together. “Nice mucky dreams?"

"Weird dreams. We were going into space and those two kept fighting about what clothes to take. You insisted on flying the rocket."

"Ooh, very Freudian. What were you doing then?"

"Trying to work out how to 69 in zero gravity."

John snorted. "Sounds about right."

Greg suddenly noticed the absence of additional sarky commentary. A brief flash of concern skittered across his face. 

"Where's Prince Charming got to?"

John shrugged.

"Probably cuddled up with Sleeping Beauty."

They exchanged knowing grins. Holmes boys sleeping together - always a rewarding thought. 

Greg ran his hands down to John's firm arse and squeezed. 

John humped insistently against his groin and waggled his sandy eyebrows.

"Now I've got you alone... Fancy a quick one?"

Greg sighed as though very put-upon. "Go on, then."

John grinned and whispered hotly into his ear.

"Get your pants off and roll over, you lazy bastard."

Greg wasn’t a morning person at heart, but he'd happily lie there while John took him for a pre-breakfast gallop. So he did as he was told, and John went to town, romping on top of him with abandon. Greg lazily thrust his arse back and came rubbing against the mattress, while John came up him with a noisy shout.

After a post-orgasmic snog session, they rolled out of bed and went for their showers, deciding it was best to let sleeping Holmeses lie for now. Half an hour later, Greg went to check in, fully expecting to find Myc and Lock in a compromising clinch, or at least a very snoozy cuddle. But the master bedroom was empty.

He frowned. It was disconcertingly quiet. He went downstairs to investigate, sensing trouble. 

His heart lightened when he found Sherlock at the breakfast table, immersed in something on the laptop and innocuously munching toast. Mycie was probably on the sofa already, watching the news, or waiting for someone to bring him his tea.

"Where's your brother?" he asked, neutrally.

Sherlock barely looked up. "And a very good morning to you too, Lestrade.” 

"Sorry. Morning, baby." Greg planted an apologetic kiss on the top of his lover’s curly crop. 

"I take it John gave you a satisfactory wake up call? I could hear the headboard banging from down here. Where does he get the energy to be quite so vigorous without even a cup of tea inside him?”

Greg smiled and helped himself to breakfast, wincing from his morning rogering ever so slightly as he sat down. He resisted the obvious rejoinder that he at least had had rather more than tea inside him already, and repeated his first question. 

"Where's Mycie?" 

Sherlock ceased typing and sat back, smiling pleasantly. "He's off."

Greg looked puzzled.

"What do you mean, off?"

"As in buggered off. Absconded. He's gone to work." 

Sherlock had decided his pledge not to inform upon his brother applied only to the initial sneaking out. It would be cruel to withhold the full truth now the illicit absenteeism had been exposed. Besides, it was not worth courting Greg's ire with lies of omission. He was Being Good - the position he typically adopted on the rare occasions when Mycroft was Being Naughty.

It took a few seconds for Greg to register the baffling statement 'He's gone to work'. But then the meaning of it fell full force upon him. He had been quite spectacularly disobeyed. He sprang to his feet.

"He's bloody what?!"

Sherlock cringed at the thunderous tone and the slamming of the broad hand on the tabletop. He put his hands over his ears.

"Don't shout! It's too early for shouting. And don't scowl at me like you want to eat my liver, I didn't make him go!"

"John!" Greg yelled up the stairs as John came scurrying down them, grumbling.

"What? Why are people always shouting my name like that?!"

“Myc's left the building."

John looked around the kitchen, as though Greg might be mistaken. 

"What? Gone round to the shop or something?"

"Scarpered to the Office.”

John's mouth dropped open in incredulity. “But I specifically told him... He wouldn’t dare!”

Greg placed his hands on his hips and glowered.

“He has dared."

“Is he delirious or what?” said John, flopping into a chair with obvious irritation. Sherlock slid a plate of toast and a cup of tea over to him, as though oblivious to the storm clouds overhead.

“Not delirious. Stubborn and proud and bloody impossible!" fumed Greg, pacing up and down, mentally calculating all the ways in which he would wreak his vengeance. "And he’s getting the hiding of his life when I catch up with him. When I say 'No', I mean 'No'."

He fished his phone out of his trouser pocket. "But if he thinks I'm waiting for him to roll home tonight, hoping I'll calm down...," he muttered, preparing to deliver an almighty verbal bollocking and issue orders to return to base camp forthwith. He fiddled with the phone for moment, then chucked it on the table in disgust.

"Signal's dead."

John frowned.

"Eh? Use mine. It's..." He checked it and his face fell. "Also as dead as politeness in the cinema."

"Classic Mycie. We've been jammed," said Sherlock, cheerily. "I think you'll find the landline's out of action too, and the broadband's been cut off. I'm not really working, I'm playing Solitaire, see?" 

He showed them his laptop, where he had indeed been wasting hours counting digital cards, waiting for them to come and entertain him instead.

John shook his head at the sheer gall of Mycroft sending them back to the 20th century just to evade capture for a few hours. "Oh. My. God." 

Greg's eyebrow twitched. 

"He is... I mean, seriously, he is a dead man walking." He caught Lock's disconcerted frown, and he patted him reassuringly. "Sorry, sweetheart. I mean he is a severely-in-pain-will-struggle-to-sit-on-a-flat-surface-for-weeks man walking." 

"A spanked man limping," offered John, helpfully.

Sherlock nodded. That was a better prognosis.

"So... Trip to Westminster, I take it?" said John.

Greg nodded, stony-faced. "Yep."

Sherlock clapped. "Yay, a Mycie hunt! Let me get my coat and scarf. Be right with you."

Greg clicked his fingers as Lock rose excitedly from his chair. 

“Woah, hang on, miladdo," he said, gripping his shoulders and pushing him back down. "Not so fast. You knew about this.”

Sherlock snorted with indignation.

“I don't deny it. I know about everything. Caught him sneaking out at 4am.”

“Then why didn’t you stop him, dickhead?” tutted John. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and scoffed.

“I'm not his keeper! Besides, have you ever tried to stop Mycroft Holmes doing anything once he's set his mind to it? I have. It never ends well. Nothing works except brute force, sexual bribery or relentless nagging. It's genetic. But even then, you have to catch him before he gets in one of his moods. One cannot get through to Moody Mycie until he's played all _his_ cards, so to speak. So I let him." 

"What are the chances you deduced he was going to do a moonlight flit?" said Greg, accusingly. "Could have tipped us off!" 

"Well, all right, I confess I did sort of want to see what would happen. It's quite fascinating. My darling brother is never boring," he said, proudly.

He balked at the disapproving looks being cast at him. 

"Don’t blame me - I was very responsible, actually! I checked that he was aware of his choice. He stood firm. I provided a vivid reminder of the consequences, and out he went. Not my fault."

Greg relented and stroked his youngest lover’s arm.

“Hm. Yeah, I know the score. Don’t blame you, love.”

Sherlock looked delighted at this rare statement.

“Right, come on then," said Greg, with grim intent. "Let's go and stage a little coup against the British Government."

John sighed, seeing unnecessary drama ahead. He was on the verge of feeling sorry for Mycroft, and was already quite concerned about the extra days it would take to get him well. But then he remembered all the sound advice he'd given the night before; the sensible warnings which had been summarily ignored. He set his jaw and geared himself up for a mission.

"Wait 'til I get my bloody hands on him... Teach him to disregard NHS advice... Blimey."

Sherlock nodded in agreement.

“Blimey indeed, Watson. Big brother’s arse is, well - " he said, crunching and swallowing his final piece of breakfast with a flourish. "Toast."

***

They arrived at Westminster by Tube and stood outside the Whitehall building most likely to contain the most powerful sneezing man in the country. Greg turned to his only hope in such circumstances.

"Lockie, my angel?"

Sherlock sprang forward excitedly. This promised to be worth his while. 

"What can I do for you, you hulking brute of a man?" he said, pleasantly.

"I wouldn't usually encourage it, but...?"

Sherlock nodded his understanding. "Get us up to the Office, no questions asked?"

"Would you? I don't think there's much point me requesting an audience at reception, do you? So I'm declaring a very temporary sabotage amnesty. Consider yourself off the leash. I want in. And I don't want to have to crawl through any air ducts."

Lock grinned and straightened his scarf.

"Nothing easier, Inspector. God, I love it when you give orders I actually want to follow! Here I go."

John pulled him back firmly, an irascible pout on his face.

"Er, hang on. Not without me. Obviously."

Sherlock smirked at him.

"Do you have the requisite permission slip from home? Papa, can Johnny come out and play?" he said in his Good Little Boy voice, fluttering his lashes. Greg suppressed the urge to drag him down a side alley and fuck him against a wall. 

"Yes, muffin, he can," he said, indulgently. "Heaven forbid you miss a chance to show off, or that he misses out on a bit of a thrill. Papa's going to grab himself a coffee and have a calm down. How long do you reckon you need?"

"15 minutes, 20 max," said Sherlock, airily. 

"Go on, then, lads. Make me a happy man." 

"Nothing like a bit of minor fraud after breakfast. Come along, Watson," said Lock, clapping his partner in crime on the back.

"Righty-o."

They raced off like ferrets out of a trap, never happier than when they had legitimate reason to behave appallingly. 

Eighteen minutes later, they re-emerged, giggling and shoving each other. They straightened their faces as they approached Greg, who was sitting on a low wall, reading the paper and sipping a takeaway cappuccino. 

"Here's your official Don't Fuck With Me ID pass, sir," said Sherlock, presenting it with a smug little bow.

Greg eyed them both appreciatively. 

"Useful little things, aren't you? Do I want to know how you managed that?"

"Mm, I'm guessing not," said Sherlock, checking his nails with showy insouciance. 

John was practically bouncing on his toes, unable to quell his enthusiasm. Sherlock glared as his excitable partner ruined their whole free-wheeling, cool, piratey vibe.

"Lock's memorised the layout of the whole place. Did you know there's a tunnel that connects all these departments together? Left over from the War. We went through the Foreign Office kitchen! I locked a guard in the bog, and Lock pushed one into a stationery cupboard!" he said, beaming and buzzing from the adrenaline. "We made these from scratch in one of the security rooms. Photoshopped in pictures off my phone, look!"

He brandished his own pass in Greg's face.

Greg checked his, and snorted with amusement at the image of his disembodied head adorning the little white plastic card, and the text which identified him as Peter Davidson, Senior Executive Officer, Policy Delivery. He guessed correctly that his lovers had also retained the Whovian pseudonyms they were so fond of when working undercover.

John was once again masquerading as Tom Baker, though he'd insisted on keeping his Doctorate, and appeared to be an Under Secretary in the Department of Health. Whereas the prolific Professor Matt Tennant of the Home Office had evidently been seconded from Legal Affairs, and moved to Knowledge and Information Management.

John snorted suddenly, and Sherlock caught his eye until their faces both creased into giggles.

Greg groaned. 

"Oh, no, what? What else have you done?!"

"Nothing!" they chorused unconvincingly. 

They thought it best not to mention having photographed their bare bottoms and loaded them onto the system in place of hundreds of ID pictures. 

Greg tutted. He had bigger fish to fry. Well, one big fish, in a rather expensive suit.

"No. I don't want to know. But don't get too bloody used to this leniency. This is emergency measures - that's your lot, the pair of you. And I'm confiscating these when we're done."

Twin "awww"s met his ears and he frowned disapprovingly.

Sherlock slapped at his arm in protest. "Don't be grumpy. Reward, please."

"We'll see. Let's get your naughty brother sorted first."

They set off for the front entrance. Sherlock led the way, brandishing his fake pass at anyone who cared to look in his direction. 

They were waved through multiple scanners and searches, until they were finally free to ascend in the one of the glass lifts which ran through an arterial shaft at the centre of the building. Sherlock motioned for them to exit at the seventh floor, and they took a few twists and turns down corridors neither Greg nor John recognised, until they stood outside a nondescript (and therefore highly important) door.

Sherlock pressed a buzzer, and smiled with revolting charm at the fish-eye camera.

They heard a resigned feminine sigh, and the door swung open automatically. 

There, at a desk in a small alcove with a large door behind her, sat Anthea, like a gatekeeper to purgatory, looking unruffled and utterly unsurprised to see them. 

"Ah, Mr Lestrade. And your entourage of admirers," she said, with a frosty, thin-lipped smile. Sherlock gave her his best Paddington Stare, which she enjoyed ignoring. "How may I help?"

"I believe you've got something of mine," Greg said, grimly. 

She barely batted an eyelid, and smiled with ironic pleasantry.

"Am I to infer from your tone that my erstwhile employer is AWOL?" 

John snorted. 

"AWOL and about to be court martialed."

"So disappointing," she sighed. "He actually tried to fob me off with the offensively transparent cover story that you'd given permission for his return to duty. Though one could plainly see he was unsteady on his feet."

Greg looked worried. "What? Why didn't you send him home?!"

Anthea gave him a piercing look.

"Hardly my place to interfere with my superior’s personal arrangements."

"Doesn't usually stop you," said Greg, gruffly.

"With respect, Mr Lestrade, any involvement I undertake in Mr Holmes's domestic affairs is at his behest, not yours. My duty lies first and foremost with Sir."

Greg had to concede that point. Anthea was loyal to only one man in the world. He was lucky she approved of him at all, and had a hidden soft-spot for John - and regarded Lock as a particularly pesky brother of her own.

"Sir was very insistent that he wished to be left to get on with his job without my assistance - such strange notions men have. As though I hadn't already cleared his workload and set in motion a scheme to defang the abominable Cab Sec. I advised him to return home, to no avail. But I suppose it's his backside on the line, not mine. Oh, figuratively speaking, I'm sure," she drawled, with a raised eyebrow. "Anyway, I knew you'd turn up. That's why I called off security when the Little One broke in." 

Lock stamped his foot. "Don't you  _dare_ call me that! Rude!"

She swiftly turned her attention to John - an overt strategy calculated to annoy the Little One even more. 

"Keeping well, Doctor?" she said, with an expression which might almost have been said to be saucy. "I saw that you added some very artistic images to our database. Thank you so much."

Greg could make nothing of this, but John had the grace to blush. He brazened it out in his usual amiable manner. 

"I'm all right, ta. You?"

"Never complain, never explain."

"Sounds good. Like your hair up like that." 

"Watson!" hissed Sherlock in horror. 

"I do feel for you both sometimes," said Anthea, refusing to even look at him. "What with one Holmes or another to contend with. But then you probably like having your hands full, don't you?"

"Don't you worry about us, Miss," said Greg, with a rakish wink. 

"Stop flirting, all of you, it's disgusting!"

Anthea chuckled sardonically. "Hardly in my line, Little Holmes."

"Sapphic harpy!"

"Precious child, how you wound me.”

Greg folded his arms impatiently. He knew full well they were being stalled.

"Ignore this one. I'm here for the eldest. I demand an interview." 

"Is he in a meeting?" said John.

"I couldn't say," she said, blankly.

"Couldn't or wouldn't?"

She shrugged noncommittally. 

Greg almost whined in protest. "I'm not in the mood, A, really."

Anthea softened a little. 

"So I see. Mr Holmes insists that he  _is_ in a meeting. That's all I can relay. I cannot share information I am not privy to."

"Can you share information you know to be false?"

"Isn't our job here dependent upon that very skill, Mr Lestrade?"

Greg frowned. "So he isn't in a meeting?”

"Well, you'd have to find him to find out. Perhaps he both is and is not. Perhaps he is meeting with Mr Schrödinger…,” she mused, tapping the table top with her French manicure.

"Pathetic," snorted Sherlock, scowling mightily, while the others looked merely nonplussed.

"Oh, let us in, Anthea, go on!" wheedled John, trying to charm their way in as a last ditch attempt.

She raised a hand to cut him off.

"I couldn't possibly. I am merely a humble functionary. I have no power over Mr Holmes's decisions or whereabouts, and it's more than my job's worth to let you waltz in unannounced. Though... I wonder whether you might have better luck on - oh, to pick a number totally at random - the fourth floor?"

"Cheers, love," said Greg, gracing her with his most dashing smile.

She winked a false eyelash. "You're welcome, handsome." 

"Tart!" called Sherlock, as they hastened away.

"Infant!" she yelled after him.

They dashed back to the lift. As the doors pinged open on the fourth floor, they split up to cover more ground. 

Sherlock opened every single door he could find, interrupting important meetings, clandestine assignations and secret exchanges with a variety of jolly excuses: "Sorry, just checking for parasites - yep, plenty in here.” "Excuse me, anyone seen the Chancellor's undies?" "Don't drink the tea, it's laced with…no, no, I've said too much!"

John stalked the corridors like a Black Ops pro, hiding round corners at the onset of footsteps, jumping out at unsuspecting, and very startled, passersby. 

Greg stormed through the entire floor, like a T-Rex on the rampage, his fury building with every passing minute. 

They converged in the central lobby, empty-handed. Until the lift pinged, and out stepped Mycroft Holmes, looking pallid, knackered, and caught. Anthea had played a blinder.

"Fancy seeing you here," said Greg, menacingly, hands on hips.

To the uninformed observer, the tiny flinch of Mycroft's brow, the miniscule widening of his eyes, and the sharp intake of breath would have barely registered. To his lovers, the expression spoke a mouthful. If given verbal articulation, it would have sounded something like: "Oh, shit." 

But then something unaccountable took place. Mycroft Holmes, with all the hauteur of Princess Margaret on a visit to the colonies, stepped calmly back into the lift, pressed the button, and descended rapidly to the ground floor. 

Three mouths dropped open in disbelief - although one was decidedly more upturned than the others. 

"Fascinating!" breathed Sherlock. "I've never seen him do this before! Well, come on, come on," he said, bouncing excitedly and gesturing for a stunned Lestrade and Watson to enter the adjacent lift. Nobody spoke as they descended. That is, until they saw the lift carrying Mycroft ascending next to them once more, with their quarry looking pointedly the other way.

"You've got to be joking!" cried John. "A lift chase?!"

Sherlock simply wailed with laughter, and peered up to see which floor his brother was aiming at. 

"Fifth floor, John!" 

Suddenly, their own lift opened and four civil servants attempted to enter. They were unceremoniously pushed out while John hammered at the 'close doors' button. 

"Sorry, no room! We've got a tournament on!" cried Sherlock, going limp with hysteria as the door finally closed in their confused and insulted-looking faces. 

Greg had turned his back and was gently battering his forehead on the far wall, muttering something about, "Not gonna sit for a week. No, a month. Not until Christmas!"

John hit the up button and they reversed course. 

"Oop, he's on the move again!" howled Sherlock, now in a heap on the floor as he saw what was happening. The lifts crossed paths once more as Mycroft descended, continuing evasive action. John pointed his finger and mimed a throat-slitting as they passed the granite-faced elder Holmes - looking increasingly like a man who knew his days were numbered. 

The lift jolted as they forced themselves back down to follow him. But someone else had pressed for service, and they juddered to a halt on the third floor. They saw through the glass lift shaft that Mycroft had stopped and exited just below them on the second. So near, and yet so far.

"Bugger!" said John, straight in the face of a very offended old duffer as the doors pinged open. "Come on - stairs!" He raced out like a Commando and threw himself towards the stairwell door. 

Greg loped out at a brisk pace, shaking his head, fists balled up and shoulders hunched in rage. 

"Giving me the bloody run around! Gonna regret this for life. For. Life," he muttered ominously.

Sherlock practically crawled out into the corridor, limp with laughter like a man on nitrous oxide. Servants of Her Majesty's Government simply stepped around him as though this sort of thing happened all the time. 

"I've literally never seen someone dig a hole this deep this quickly!" he said, to no-one in particular. He waved at a security camera - hoping Anthea was enjoying watching her boss make a complete fool of himself - and staggered to the stairs. 

He could hear that law and order had finally caught up with the coughing miscreant below. 

"Holmes! Stop where you are!” warned Greg, as unimpressed as his lovers had ever heard him.  

“Surrender and come quietly," said John.

"Or never come again," called Sherlock through his giggle fit. 

They all glared up at him and he blithely paid no attention. 

They were standing at the bottom of the stairwell; Mycroft was wheezing like a pair of punctured bellows. 

"Well, not for a few days at least. Maybe a week," said John, moderately, rubbing his lover's back as he recovered himself.

Greg looked the elder Holmes over. "Look at you, you're a wreck. Barely standing."

"Gregory, I..."

"Silence from you, ta. Catch your breath properly. Then order a car. Not a word until we get home, unless you want me to seriously undermine your street cred in this postcode." 

Mycroft nodded, keeping his eyes downcast. "Yes."

"I think I'll have a bit more than that, thank you."

"Yes, sir."

"Too sodding right, yes sir," growled Greg. "Big trouble, my boy. Massive." 

Mycroft gulped and looked up sheepishly at Gregory in full force. Not to be messed with. He wondered what on earth he'd been thinking, going on the run. Other than 'come and get me, I feel dreadful'.

"Erm. Yes, sir."

Sherlock came bounding down the final few stairs with a little jump, like a teenager at a fairground.

"Aw, I want to play the lift game again!"

Greg clipped him round the head. "Button it or you'll be joining this one in the doghouse. I’ll very happily drag you both out of here by your ears and tan your arses in the middle of a traffic island."

Sherlock snorted and tried to school his features.

"Sorry, Greg."

In the corridors of power Mycroft led the way, performing his usual unassailable public role with not a hair out of place. His lovers followed on their best public behaviour, though Greg's jaw was almost permanently clenched to stop himself making a scene.

The car journey was held in abject silence. Mycroft tried very hard not to think about what was going to happen next. He went into a bit of a Mind Palace trance, replaying his key errors during the day, stewing in his irritation that Anthea had managed to secure the Cabinet Secretary's compliance without him, and had then cast him into the lion's den. He could sense one particular, very grouchy lion looking daggers at him for the whole journey. 

Before he knew it they were back at Hampstead, and he snapped out of his reverie. As soon as he stepped through the front door, his shoulders sagged in defeat, and obvious relief. 

Greg turned to him, still rigid with unspent tension. He gripped Mycroft's shoulder, turned him and planted a stinging smack to his backside. Mycroft moved away by instinct, but was pulled back and walloped twice more, very hard.

"Ouch!"

Greg was unmoved.

"Give you ouch. That's just for brooding about work in the car instead of thinking about how sorry you are. John, take him upstairs. Strip that ridiculous suit off him, get him under the shower, and put him in his pyjamas. Present him in the study when you're done. Any nonsense, act accordingly. Don't keep me waiting."

John nodded sharply, suppressing the urge to salute. 

Mycroft bridled a little at being talked about as though he wasn't there, even though part of him was hugely grateful for not having to worry about anything other than his ultimate comeuppance. Greg caught his eyes with a glare, simultaneously fierce and understanding. Mycroft blushed at being so utterly transparent to the man.

John swatted his charge towards the stairs, causing him to yip again and throw his hand back for protection.

"Right you are, guv," said John, briskly. "Come on, Houdini. Don't half know how to get yourselves in a fix, you Holmes lads, eh?" 

Sherlock moved to go with them but was pulled back by a firm hand.

"No, baby, you're coming with me," said Greg.

Sherlock looked torn as his brother was led away. 

"Oh, but..."

"Shush. Come and help me calm down a bit, yeah?”

Sherlock sighed and dragged his feet. "OK."

"Don't look so worried. Not gonna do anything while I'm angry, am I? Trust me, sweetheart."

Sherlock nodded and hugged his lover round the waist.

"Yep. Trust you. Just...don't be too mean, Greg," he said, biting his lip with telltale insecurity in his eyes. As much as Lock enjoyed and understood his brother's need to court punishment occasionally, some small part of him was appalled by it; ever-ready to leap in and protect him at any cost. 

Greg clicked his tongue and stroked his jittery lover's back with soothing hands.

"Am I going to harm him, do you reckon?"

"No. Just thrash him silly," said Sherlock, caught halfway between glad and gloomy.

Greg rolled his eyes at this overly-dramatic assessment.

"No, I'm gonna give him a pain the arse, like he's given me one the last few hours, that's all. House rules, innit?" 

Sherlock nodded. 

"What's it for?" nudged Greg, gently.

"A reminder. A deterrant. A symbol."

"Are you and Mycie so different?"

"No. Same."

"Right. So how would he feel if I didn't do what he needs me to do?"

Sherlock smiled ruefully. "Worse. Neglected."

Greg ruffled his hair, grateful for the support. 

"Yep. Come and chat to me over a cuppa, bonny lad. I've had a rotten morning, and now I've got to be a rotten bastard for a few hours."

"Poor Papa," said Sherlock, pouting extravagantly, blinking up at him with respect and no small measure of cheek to lighten their moods.

"Too bloody right." 

Upstairs in the bedroom Mycroft was wrapped in a large towel, shivering slightly and shifting nervously from foot to foot. 

"John, I... Johnny...," he began, awkwardly.

John cut him off with a glare. 

"Who?"

"Erm, Captain Watson? Sir?" tried Mycroft, tentatively.

"Think I'll have Doctor, actually," said John, mouth set in a firm, no-nonsense line. 

"Yes, sir. Doctor. I - "

John dropped his stern facade for moment and looked at him with kind exasperation. Mycroft looked like nothing more than a damp and sorry boy, all bravado and self-control dissipated in the steam of the shower.

"I know, mate."

John stripped off the towel and dried him off, roughing up his hair and smoothing it back down again with care. He held a fresh pair of brushed cotton pyjamas and Mycroft went to take them.

"Nope. Arms up."

Mycroft did as he was bid and let John dress him. He stepped into the dressing gown held out for him, and was escorted to the first floor study.

The room was usually his private domain, except when it came to things like this when it was most definitely Gregory's territory.

Greg was sitting at the desk looking a damn sight calmer than he had earlier. He sighed at the picture his lover made, all meekly subdued and flushed in his nightwear. He steeled himself to focus on all the untenable disobedience so he wouldn't just gather Mycie up and take him to bed.

Lock was sitting stiffly on the edge of a leather armchair pretending to read. Greg gave the briefest of nods, and he bounded to his feet to envelop the miscreant in a hug. 

Mycroft brought his hands up to Lock's hair and breathed a heavy sigh. 

“Poor naughty brother," whispered Sherlock, with a sympathetic smile. Mycroft pecked him on the nose with a rather disconsolate air.

"I just can't pull it off in the same way you can, dear." 

"Nope. Silly to try. But points for effort," said Sherlock, eager to reassure him that his behavioural creativity had been appreciated by someone at least. 

John chuckled, but Greg cleared his throat meaningfully. 

"No points at all. Lock, sit your arse down before you talk yourself into a hiding. Mycie, come here." 

He pointed to the carpet in front of the desk. Mycroft shuffled to it, and stood, hands behind his back, head slightly bowed. 

Greg took a deep breath. 

"Bear in mind, Holmes, if you don't answer this next question honestly you will be even more fucking sorry: how are you feeling, doll?" 

Mycroft looked up, grateful for the gentle phrasing. 

"A bit wobbly. Actually... Not very well. Sir."

Greg raised a sardonic eyebrow.

"Funny, that, eh? Almost as though you had flu or something. What did I say to you last night?"

"That I wasn't to go to work until John said I was well enough. And that you would be...displeased if I attempted to."

"Oh, so you do remember? Thought you might have developed a brain fever. Anything else spring to your memory?"

"You said I would be punished for disobedience, and for arguing against my own best interests," sighed Mycroft, cringing inwardly as he recalled his ghastly, undignified tantrum, and his even ghastlier early morning escape act.

"Very smartly put. So why the bullshit today?"

Mycroft flinched. 

"I... Erm..." He floundered a little, finding it hard to let the awkward words out.

Greg held up a hand. "OK. Difficult to say right now, yeah? Which is why I'm gonna help you out. Over the desk."

Mycroft paled a little and balked, intimidated by the prospect of being punished while he was still feeling woozy and full of cold. 

"What?" said Greg, perceptively. "If you're well enough to go to work, you're well enough to take your discipline, aren't you?"

"But I wasn't well enough to go to work - you said so yourself!" exclaimed Mycroft.

Greg looked at him with quiet triumph.

"Exactly! Believe me now, do you? So it'll stand over until you're better. And in the meantime, you're on Full Control and best manners."

"Oh, Gregory, really!" protested Mycroft, with a Lock-like whine. Full Control was just demeaning.

A severe-looking Greg pointed his finger.

"Don't you  _dare_ give me any lip about it. Any more backchat or disobedience, I'll add it to your tally. No warnings. Not doing anything without my express say so. You ask permission for  _everything_. Me or John will dress and undress you, feed you, wash you, and escort you to the lav. Though your privacy is guaranteed in the smallest room, of course. Everywhere else though, it's mine." 

Greg was pretty good at taking a bloke down off his high horse, if he did say so himself.

Mycroft gave an angry huff. "Yes, sir."

"Don't huff at me. Little boys in disgrace don’t have permission to huff."

Mycroft dropped his head. "No, sir."

Greg moved round the desk towards him.

"Better. Come here.” He held his arms out and Mycroft shuffled to him tentatively.

Greg grabbed him close, and sighed with fond despair. "Oh, my silly Mycie, thinking you're all big and clever when you're just naughty today, aren't you? Bet you haven't had anything to eat, either?"

"No," confessed Mycroft, feeling discomforting guilt in his rumbling stomach.

Greg shook his head in disapproval. "Not acceptable."

“I'm sorry, Gregory.”

I know, darlin’,” he said, patting Mycroft’s pale cheek. “Save it, yeah? We’ll sort it out. Nothing to do now except behave yourself, and I know you can do that.”

Mycroft nodded deferentially, and was firmly guided to the door as though he might suddenly make another break for it.

“Let’s go and have a bit of a late lunch, then nap time for you,” said Greg.

It was a quiet though not unpleasant atmosphere at the dining table. John cut up Mycroft's food and fed him, piece by piece, under Greg's watchful eye. Lock ate his own meal in unprotesting silence, casting curious, concerned little looks across the table, but he tried very hard to maintain composure so as not to disrupt his brother's headspace.

Greg issued minor admonitions and corrections from time to time, to prevent the elder Holmes slipping into daydreams.

"Sit up straight, Mycie, there's a good boy."

Mycroft pulled himself up and sat with his hands in his lap. He rebelled against the infantilisation at first, scowling as he was fed. But after a while it became second nature, and he relaxed into it. Nothing to do. Nothing to decide. 

"May I please leave the table?" he said, when he'd completed his meal to John's satisfaction. 

Greg shook his head. 

"Nope. Not until everyone's finished. Not letting you out of our sight."

Mycroft slumped and waited. He squirmed after a while, resenting every excruciatingly embarrassing request he was forced to make. 

"May I go to the bathroom, please?" he said, though gritted teeth.

"Yep. John, can you take him? Lock, stop giggling," warned Greg, barely looking up from his plate. Silence fell instantly.

When they returned, Mycroft was almost relieved when John checked his watch.

"Bed for Mycie, I reckon. Is that all right with Sir?" he said, with a small cheeky smile. Greg frowned.

"None of your lip, either. Get him tucked in. I'll be up when me and Lock have cleared this lot away. No, don't whinge at me, Sherlock Holmes. You're in my good books today, remember? Don't ruin it, or you'll be going to bed with a smacked arse later too."

"Good books. Stupid idea...," muttered a very disgruntled detective. 

Mycroft let himself be put to bed at a ridiculous hour of the afternoon. Greg was keeping his distance just a tiny bit, to allow him to assume the disciplinarian role more easily, so it was John who lay beside him on top of the covers, stroking the high forehead and noting that a bit of colour had come back to his lover's doleful face.

"Here's some tissues for you, Sniffly."

Mycroft frowned in aggravation at the childish treatment as John tried to wipe his runny nose. When Greg and Sherlock arrived to make sure he was settled, he felt completely absurd and overly-scrutinised.

Sherlock pecked him on the lips. "No sneaking out this time!" he chirped with an insolent grin. "I shall be monitoring all cameras." 

Mycroft fumed and tossed his head, turning to Greg while Lock stuck out his tongue.

"I'm not awfully tired, actually. May I read my book…Sir?" he asked, with a petulant tone in his voice.

Greg raised an eyebrow at sulky attitude. "Nope. Straight to sleep. No distractions."

"But it's only 4pm! And I'm not distracted by reading, Gregory. I am capable of falling asleep without regulation!"

Lock gasped and John groaned. So close. 

"I beg your bloody pardon?" said Greg, malevolently. 

Mycroft clammed up, going pink at the ear tips at his little slip of temper. 

He was too wound up to rest, that much was clear - and he was only going to get himself in more trouble at this rate. Waiting for the other shoe to drop was suddenly out of the question. He swallowed hard.

“I'm sorry. It's just... I really won't be able to sleep at all until..."

"Until what?" coaxed Greg, with an encouraging look.

He dropped his head in defeat. "Really, Gregory, I’d rather have it now than wait for it. Waiting is just cruel.”

"Is it, now? What did I tell you earlier?"

"I have to ask for  _everything_ ," he said, reluctantly. 

Greg looked at him with expectation. "Well then?"

Mycroft sighed and fidgeted.

"Please, Gregory, mightn't I be punished now? I'm not going to faint or anything."

He winced with humiliation. Having to ask for his own punishment - just another one of those awful, intimate things Gregory knew about him. He cursed the day he'd confessed exactly what he most loathed, and consequently what worked best for his discipline. It was too dreadful.

Greg made a show of considering the proposal. In truth, he wanted to get it out of the way too, but the man still needed a decent kip. A compromise was called for.

"Yes and no,” he said, levelly. “You can have half now, and the rest later, after your nap. Out you get. Doc, you're up." 

Mycroft got out of bed, and John sat on the edge of it. He patted his lap and crooked a beckoning finger - his matey demeanour was gone and in its place was a mask of serious professionalism. 

"Not John first?!" spluttered Mycroft, horrified at the prospect. Watson's hand was awful. Both Holmes boys knew that for a fact. 

“Would you rather have him _last,_ brother?” queried Sherlock, entirely rhetorically. He took a seat at the vanity table, half-wondering whether big brother might take leave of his senses and refuse to cooperate. But Mycroft moved hesitantly towards the displeased Doctor.

"What did I say to you last night?” said John, gravely, reaching out to take his hands, standing Mycroft in front of him. “Said you'd get it off me if you set back your recovery. Which you have done. And bloody ignored my advice too, like a stuck-up little git."

"I didn't mean to impugn your expertise!" Mycroft protested, desperately.

"But you did, mate. Besides that, I'm narked off that you gave us that load of lift-based cobblers earlier. Entertaining as it was. Now get over my knee, I'm done arguing with you. Lucky you're not getting the slipper,” he added for good measure.

Mycroft blushed and looked anxiously over his shoulder at his little brother. "Oh, but…Lock...”

Sherlock sat with his arms folded, daring his brother to have him removed from the room. Greg intervened on his behalf.

“If you didn’t want your baby brother to watch you having your bottom smacked, you should have behaved yourself in the first place. What kind of an example is that to set him? Not that it does much bloody good..."

Lock had the good sense not to chime in again.

Mycroft cringed as he was pulled across John's lap. He whimpered as his pyjama trousers were pulled down to mid-thigh and his top pushed up to his shoulders. The position and the half-nakedness equated to a very vulnerable, exposed sensation indeed. Blood rushed to his aching head and his breath came in short little panting bursts.

"Hands flat on the floor," ordered John, placing a hand on his back, waiting for him to settle. 

Mycroft licked his lips and did as he was told. 

Greg stood to the side as Watson prepared to make his point.

The Doctor’s square hand raised high above the firm, pale backside in his lap, and descended with force upon the fleshy cheeks.

Mycroft flinched and gasped as a small fire was lit upon his bare bottom. His cold symptoms receded into the background – his malady was now entirely in his rump. _Awful._

"Ohh!" he whinged, sounding pitiful even to his own ears.

His usually composed features screwed up with each sharp spank, and he clenched his jaw, refusing to make another sound as the unavoidable burn built up. He wiggled and flinched under the sting, and felt John pin him down more firmly to redouble his efforts. The thought of Gregory and Lock watching him writhe helplessly, bare from the waist down, made him flush red to the roots of his hair. If this were an erotic scene he'd be delighted. As it was he was appalled and the exact opposite of aroused.

Greg watched with grim satisfaction as his obstinate lover’s arse pinkened up nicely. He glanced over to check on Lock and was relieved to see him undistressed, if a little perturbed. It was plain that the detective was vicariously feeling his brother’s punishment, jumping a little with each loud smack. Greg imagined he might also be a bit confused – it was usually him over someone’s knee. Must be odd for the lad to be merely a spectator, he thought.

John was in his stride now, raining down open-handed blows with breathtaking speed. Unlike Lock, who squalled and shrieked, Mycroft was a performative stoic. Both Holmeses had high pain thresholds, but lost them during the mortification of a spanking - you just had to get Mycie to the point where he couldn’t hold his natural reactions back anymore. 

John prided himself on being able to reach that point pretty briskly.

"Ow...," came an almost inaudible squeak from below.

“Yep. Let’s hear you, Mycie,” said John, walloping harder.

Mycroft shook his head frantically. It was pointless trying to avoid it.

"Ah! I... Mmf! Ow. John!" he wailed.

"Doctor, ta. Tell me - why are you over my knee, being spanked like a bad lad?"

"I...nngh…was disobedient. Didn't heed your advice, Doctor!"

John concentrated his hand upon the right sit spot, where the sweet curve of Mycroft’s behind met his thigh. He howled.

“Ignored my bloody advice completely,” corrected John.

“Sorry, John, Doctor Watson, truly!” pleaded Mycroft, his voice cracking a little under the strain.

John swapped to the left cheek and gave that equal attention.

"Will you listen to me in future?"

"Yes! Yes, of course! Please!"

John nodded, honour satisfied. He finished off with three hard wallops to the very centre of his lover’s blushing bum.

Mycroft was panting and limp when he stopped, clinging on to John’s trouser leg.

John sighed and rubbed his lover’s bare back in soothing strokes.

"Learned your lesson?"

"Yes, Doctor, completely,” sniffled Mycroft. “It won’t happen again.”

John helped his lover up, and he sat on the bed with a grimace and a tiny moan as his tender cheeks made contact. Mycroft stood suddenly, and got a little headrush which made him stumble. Greg lurched towards him and helped him back into bed, while Lock threw back the bedclothes.

Greg placed a cool hand on his bottom.

"Hmm. Hot but not scorching. Think you'll live,” he teased. "But no rubbing, and no cold cream until later."

Mycroft nodded, pouting uncharacteristically at this unwelcome, but not entirely unexpected, bit of news.

John smiled, and leaned in to kiss the currently rather meek and mild British Government.

“Not exactly a case for A&E, are you?" he said with a wink.

Mycroft chuckled a bit wetly. "No. I daresay I shall survive it. Thank you,” he said, sniffing. “John, my dear, I do know better than to cross you. And I have nothing but respect for your expert opinion.”

John nudged Mycroft’s chin with his knuckles, feeling a little self-conscious himself.

“S’all right. Forget it, gorgeous. Rest up.”

He wiped away the slight suspicion of wetness at the corner of the limpid grey eyes. Mycie was not a crier, generally. But a few tiny sobs had worked their way out of him - for the humiliation and discomfort, certainly; in gratitude at being cared for; but also to release some of the edgy feeling he’d been carrying around since the day before.

Greg kissed the top of his lover's red-brown hair, breathing him in deeply.

"Sleep, m'lovely,” he rumbled, softly. “No more nonsense. Full Control still in force, so text when you wake up and Johnny’ll come and get you. Not off the hook with me yet."

Mycroft ducked his head. “No, Gregory.”

Lock licked salt from his brother’s face and butted his forehead, like a cat grooming a kitten. He didn’t need to say a word.

They left him, snoring gently despite his sore backside. Only a few hours before he would be made well again. In mind, if not in body. 


	5. Panacea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some discipline with soppiness and love. x

By the time Mycroft awoke, it was dark outside. His backside was sore, but it was bearable, and he felt refreshed – a little lighter in heart, if not yet fully absolved. His headache had receded, and his chest felt less heavy altogether. He sent his text, and waited, hands folded above the covers, until John came back up to fetch him. 

"How's yer bum?" said the GP, cheerfully.

"Smarting,” replied Mycroft, with sincerity. “Oh, John, really…!” he protested, as John pushed him gently over and pulled his trousers down. He hid his face in the pillow while he was examined.

"Let's have a look. Ooh. Poor thing, look at my nasty handprints there."

"It’s unseemly to brag, Doctor," said Mycroft, frowning over his shoulder.

"Oi, sauce.” John slapped his bottom lightly, eliciting a small grimace. “How are you feeling otherwise?”

“A bit less revolting, it must be said. Less vertiginous, and less like I’m going to sneeze every five seconds.”

John nodded in satisfaction.

“Good. Bit of grub and a sleep works wonders. Come on, let's get you presentable for He Who Must Be Obeyed."

Mycroft winced.

“I don’t suppose I could bribe you to say I’m not fit for duty, could I?” he said, with wry humour.

John chuckled.

“Yeah, go on then. But you’ll feel so guilty you’ll spill your guts to Greg, and then we’ll both be bloody bending over for him. I know you’re a vault of mystery at work, pal, but he only has to give you his ‘I’m very disappointed’ eyes and you sing like a canary.”

Mycroft smiled, grateful that easygoing John could always lift him from a funk. He gave a small, sincere shudder.

“Don’t mention the disappointed eyes. I’m going to be seeing them later. I’d rather the ‘I’m so furious I could skin you alive’ look.”

“Yeah, you might be seeing that too, matey. Come on, up you get. Just in time for dinner. I dunno, being bloody waited on hand and foot. Who’s being punished here, you or me?!” he quipped.

John helped the older man out of bed and back into his robe, then spruced his hair up and brushed his teeth for him. 

Mycroft was escorted back downstairs and parked on the sofa with a book and a jug of water. John sat with him to watch a bit of mindless telly, while Greg cooked, aided by Lock, who was being kept deliberately busy. Occasionally, the odd predictable protest met their ears from the kitchen.

“I can’t chop any more buggering vegetables, I’m not a skivvy! This is exploitation! Ow! A spatula, Greg?! Mean.”

When they finally gathered together round the dining table, Sherlock took great trouble to inform them exactly how much effort he’d put into every last carrot in the chicken casserole, gabbling on and on to fill the slightly awkward atmosphere.

“And he made me peel all the potatoes!” he exclaimed, glaring comically at Greg. “That’s what they make people do in _prison!_ ”

“That’s not all they make you do in prison,” said John, with a camp tilt of the head, happily knocking down what Sherlock had intended to set-up. They all groaned and laughed, glad of the tension relief caused by a well-placed tasteless joke. Lock glanced at his brother and gave him a small, twinkly smile, which was warmly returned.

Mycroft submitted once again to being fed, though his appetite was low. He couldn’t quite tell if it was due to illness or nerves. He took what he was given, with John’s reassurance that he needed the nutrients and wasn’t going to be forced to eat more than he could manage. Gregory seemed an iota more pleased with him when he'd finished.

After dinner, Greg disappeared upstairs without a word, and the three of them returned to the living room under a bit of a pall. Mycroft fidgeted, finding it increasingly hard to concentrate on his book while doom hung over his head. Lock had his feet up on John’s lap, demanding a massage. Time passed slowly. But when the mantle clock chimed eight, John shifted and stood.

“Right, ready for action, soldier?” he said, sympathy radiating through his brusque demeanour. Lock shuffled behind him, biting his lip with anxiety.

Mycroft swallowed hard. Evidently, this was the appointed hour for his summons to face Gregory’s wrath.

They led him up to the study, and he felt like an overgrown schoolboy being taken to the headmaster, only without any of the kinky enjoyment that feeling usually inspired.

Gregory was perched on the edge of the desk, stony-faced and businesslike, but relaxed. He pointed to the floor in front of him, and Mycroft stood upon it, shifting nervously while John and Lock looked on from the armchairs behind him.

“Right, Holmes,” said Greg, matter-of-factly. “I know I don’t need to scold you, but I’m going to anyway. I can’t _believe_ you thought it was a good idea to pull that little Steve McQueen stunt this morning!”

Mycroft flinched at the tone, but looked puzzled at the reference. Greg rolled his eyes.

“It’s a war film, love. The Great Escape. Never mind. Did I or did I not say you were absolutely _forbidden_ to go to work?”

Mycroft nodded, staring at the carpet. “Yes, sir.”

“Oi, look at me. Did you think I was joking?”

Mycroft raised his head and cringed under his lover’s piercing glare. “No. No, not at all,” he said, quietly.

“No,” said Greg, folding his arms. “You deliberately disobeyed me in the most underhand way - and even worse, you actually had the almighty brass neck to shut me out, and then _run_ from me, which you do not do _ever_!”

His voice raised up a notch, causing Mycroft’s shoulders to drop and his stomach to plummet off a cliff.

“Bet you had some really good excuses lined up didn’t you?”

“Well, at the time I thought…” Mycroft trailed off helplessly.

Greg snorted with justifiable scepticism.

“What, that you’d be able to avoid me long enough, until I gave up caring? Or you’d talk me round to agree with you eventually? Really believe that, did you? Am I a bloody goldfish to be manoeuvred and lied to? Am I a man whose word can’t be trusted?”

Mycroft was appalled at the suggestion.

“No, sir. I just...” He struggled to clarify his thoughts through a haze of uncomfortable feelings, and it infuriated him. “I don’t know,” he broke off with a rather stroppy shrug.

Greg tilted his head and gave him a narrow-eyed look.

“Don’t you? I can help with that. Go and fetch the cane, Mycroft.”

Mycroft opened his mouth and closed it again. He heard John and Sherlock shifting a little uncomfortably behind him. But it wasn’t as if any of them hadn’t known this was coming.

He sighed heavily and dragged himself over to the small cupboard in the corner of the room, then returned to his place, holding a curved handled cane which was only used as a method of last resort. Greg’s belt would do for lesser offences, but a catalogue of misdemeanours only ever resulted in this. He handed it over to a grim-looking Gregory, and licked his lips with apprehension.

The punishment cane was different to anything they played with in a scene. Neither too light nor too thick, it was a midweight piece of equipment which meant business, designed for a certain amount of endurance. As with any disciplinary item, the effect was entirely dependent on how it was used, and whose hand wielded it. Without love or care, it was simply an item of cruelty. In the hands of Gregory Lestrade, however, it was a tool, loaded with consensual, cathartic ritual.

Ritual was everything with Mycroft, Greg had learned. With Lock, you just had to manhandle and subdue him however you could. Mycroft needed to be instructed and allowed to win back approval according to his own high standards. He also needed to be brought right down with a bit of well-placed humbling before he would readily admit fault aloud. For Mycroft, the cane was the only thing that really put him in the place he needed to be. It scorched his arse, but even the threat of it loosened his tongue.

Greg, pointed the implement at his lover.

“I’m giving you six of the best. Bare.”

“Yes, sir,” he replied, unhappily.

Mycroft’s heart hammered in his chest, and his mouth went dry - but he was almost relieved. He’d half expected a full dozen, though that was usually reserved for the most serious, damaging offences. He suspected he’d been let off a bit because of his illness, though the idea of even six strokes from Gregory, on top of what he'd already received, was daunting.

“Minded to give you the full twelve,” said Greg, perceptively. “But Doc’s already seen you today, hasn’t he?”

Mycroft nodded sheepishly. “Yes, sir.”

“Tell me what happened.”

He avoided Greg’s eye as he was made to state it out loud.

“He…spanked me for ignoring his professional instructions. It, erm, hurt.”

“Good. Don’t worry, you’re not being let off lightly. You’re going over my knee first as well.”

“Oh, Gregory!” he whined, then clamped his mouth shut before any more embarrassing pleading could emanate from it.

Greg placed the cane on the desk behind him.

“Dressing gown off.”

Mycroft removed it reluctantly, and Greg pulled him over by the arm. He half-sat with one leg slightly up on the desk, wrapped his arm around the taller man's waist and bent him over his thigh, securing him tightly.

Mycroft braced himself with both hands on the desk's surface, and straightened his legs. Blood pounded in his ears as he bent, more from anticipation than fear. Pain was merely pain, but knowing he would be broken down emotionally was a rather more intimidating a prospect, even though he craved the release it brought.

He winced when Greg took his pyjama trousers down to bare his still rather pink bottom, and felt ridiculous when they fell to his ankles. He shivered, and Greg adjusted position to force him further forwards onto his elbows, with the cane in his direct eyeline on the desk in front of him. His bottom twitched as though pre-empting how horrid this was going to be.

“Right, young man,” said Greg, ignoring how absurd it felt to call a bloke in his forties that. “Before you answer to me for your bad decisions - you put your brother in an awkward spot when you snuck off at silly o’clock. Sherlock, do you want to say something…?”

Mycroft’s head lifted in surprise. This was new, and thus somewhat alarming.

Sherlock stepped forward, having come to a small agreement with Greg earlier in the day. He looked rather sombre and took a steady breath.

“I don’t like it,” he stated, in his rumbling baritone. “In fact, I _hate_ it when you disregard your wellbeing, brother mine. Don’t do it. That’s all.”

Mycroft’s chest clenched tightly at the understatement. He had upset Lock, and it was the thing he loathed most in the world. His head dropped and he went limp against Greg’s body.

“I’m sorry, dearest,” he said, in a choked voice.

“Legs straight, Mycroft,” said Greg. Then to the younger Holmes, “OK, baby. Get it over with.”

Sherlock huffed, stepped forward and issued a very small token smack to his brother’s behind. Mycroft gasped and hitched as though it had burned him.

"Let that be a lesson to you. You've been a very naughty Mycroft,” said Lock, in his best haughty prince voice. Then he shuddered theatrically and squirmed, shaking out his arms and legs with revulsion.

“Yuck. Weird. Don’t make me do that again!" he said, to Mycroft, not to Greg. Then he went back to sit on John’s lap, as though he’d been through a gruelling ordeal.

Greg looked at him with affection and turned his attention back to the wrongdoer across his knee.

“Yeah, well, now baby brother’s been avenged... My turn.”

Mycroft grimaced as he felt Greg’s hand raise, and he was thrown forward when the first hot spank landed on his exposed bottom, tingling anew as Greg reignited the flames John had walloped into it earlier.

“You do _not_ disobey my direct instructions, Mycie Holmes, and you never, _ever_ bloody Make. Me. Chase. You. Down!” snapped Greg, forcefully, issuing a hard spank on almost every word.

The hand, percussive sound of palm on flesh rang out, and Mycroft gave up trying to be brave. He simply moaned and grunted as his bottom was thoroughly covered with smarting blows.

“And leave my bloody phone signal alone!” said Greg, as though he’d just remembered this particular grievance.

“Sorry, Gregory!” gasped Mycroft. “I won’t…ow…again, honestly!”

Greg growled doubtfully.

“Better not.”

Mycroft shifted and wiggled under the searing smacks, and Greg held onto him firmly, letting the sensation build to overtake his lover’s turbulent emotional state. When he judged the timing was right, he asked his next question.  

“Why did you misbehave today, Mycie?”

"I…felt the need to be p-productive… Ow!"

"Nope. Try again."

Mycroft inhaled sharply as his spanking continued unabated.

"I was bored? Oof! I mean, I was, erm, concerned. Worrying about..."

"Worrying about…?"

Greg smacked harder on his lover’s pale thighs and he yelled.

"About my position, about my effectiveness! I hated feeling out of control, out of the loop! When they sent that infernal busybody doctor over it was an insult, frankly!" Mycroft shouted, astonished by his own articulacy under the circumstances. “I ignored your instructions because I wanted to be in charge!”

He kicked his legs as the fierce sting raced downwards from his backside.

“And were you?”

“No, bloody Anthea had done everything already - it was as though it didn’t matter that I was gone, just as I feared!”

“You'd barely been gone two days, but you were pissed off and scared, so you decided to dig a little hole for yourself, didn’t you?” said Greg, walloping harder.

“Yes! All right, yes, I was…acting out, as they say. Oh, ouch, Gregory, bloody hell!”

Greg whacked him harder for the swearing protest. And then he asked one more dreaded question.

“ _Why_?”

Mycroft winced and stumbled over it, furious not to have an easy answer. He searched his brain and his heart for truth, but struggled to identify it through a haze of guilt and self-recrimination.

“Ow! Because…I’m an arrogant, power-mad control freak who can’t bear being told what to do!” he ventured.

“That’s not why,” Greg said, with certainty.

The smacks were lighter now, though Mycroft barely noticed as he attempted to explain himself.

John cleared his throat, and Greg nodded at him to speak.

"Myc - why was Lock so upset when you got ill?"

Mycroft frowned, and examined the desk top as though it might contain the answer.

"Because...he was disturbed, seeing me in a state. Because it reminded him of when... Oh."

The facts clicked, and Greg’s hand stopped falling.

"Right,” Greg said, holding him over his knee, gently rubbing his back as he spoke.

"When I had mumps, when I was 14…,” said Mycroft, a fascinated tone in his voice as he turned this information over. He may have been naked from the waist down, bent over his partner’s lap - but he was diverted from humiliation as his thoughts came together and made sense.

“When I was ill back then, everyone fussed around me. I had no say in anything that happened. I felt useless, and thwarted, and frustrated. Surrounded by idiots, every move and bodily function monitored. Worst of all, they separated me from my little brother. I felt weak. And I needed to escape, but I couldn’t.” He huffed a small laugh of self-recognition. “I don’t suppose I’ve ever been any good at powerlessness and confinement - perhaps this was a little too near the knuckle for me.”

"There you go, then,” said Greg, with satisfaction and no small amount of pride. He helped his lover to stand shakily up, and turned him round, quickly casting an eye of his bright red bottom, judging it about right.

“Lockie was in a rage with me afterwards, you know,” continued Mycroft, deep in recollection. “Wouldn’t speak to me for days. Kicked me in the shins and said I should have fought them off and run away.”

“Oh,” said Sherlock, guiltily. “I don’t remember that. I’m sorry, Mycie, I didn’t mean to…”

Mycroft waved it off, shaking his head. “Darling, you were a child. I knew perfectly well what you meant. I was supposed to be omnipotent. I suppose I still am.”

“Rather too much responsibility for mere mortals,” said Sherlock, reflectively, with a wistful look. John pulled him closer, planting a comforting kiss on his pale cheek.

“It is interesting how these things can affect us all our lives, isn’t it?” mused Sherlock, fiddling with John's shirt buttons.

John shrugged with an air of sagacity. “Nothing’s insignificant in childhood at all.”

“The human condition - ” began Mycroft.

Greg held up his hand to prevent a psychological treatise.

“Yeah, fascinating and all. Happy to help these little revelations. We can discuss it at length - after the rest of Mycie’s punishment,” he said, picking up the cane. “Not finished with you, boy.”

Mycroft snapped back to reality and drooped slightly, though he felt relief at the idea of this final act of atonement.

“Oh. Yes, sir.”

“Bend over the desk. Forearms and hands flat. Feet together. If your hands leave the surface, we start again,” said Greg, firmly.

Mycroft took a breath and did as he was told, pulling his pyjama jacket up over his back to bare himself more effectively. His self-consciousness lingered, but he wanted to demonstrate his remorse and his trust. Gregory deserved that.

Greg tutted at the sweet little gesture. Holmeses seemed to go out of their way to make him feel terrible by being adorable while they were being disciplined.

He steeled his resolve to complete what he’d started for his lover.

“What’s this punishment for?” he said, prompting the next part of the ritual.

Mycroft took a deep breath, feeling utterly clear-headed, so close to resolution.

“For manipulating you last night, knowing I was going to leave against your wishes. For disobeying you, and endangering my health. For shutting you out of communication - and all the childish avoidance tactics. Completely futile. I am sorry for acting upon my frustrations instead of talking to you about them. And for my delusion that needing to be looked after is a weakness. I don’t think it of anyone else but myself, and I ought to reconsider the premise.”

“Clever lad. No need to be so harsh on yourself. That’s what I’m for, in’t it?” said Greg, with a sardonic little smile. “It’s OK to step off when you need to. No-one thinks less of you, and no-one’s replacing you, at work or anywhere. How could they?”

Mycroft nodded, moved by the soft and sure confidence in his Gregory's voice.

Greg tapped the cane on his lover’s cheeks, and took aim.

“OK. Count them off for me, naughty lad."

His arm rose and fell with a high-pitched whistling sound, followed by a sharp crack as the cane struck the fleshy centre of Mycroft’s backside, leaving a thin, red line in its wake.

“One!” gasped Mycroft, wincing at the sharp sting. Greg never let him down, never gave him less than meaningful discipline. It hurt, because it was supposed to - because it drove out bigger, badder hurts every time.

Greg striped him in silence, demanding no more answers, just letting the sound of his cries and panting breaths fill the room, punctuated only by numbers.

“Three! Four!” Each stroke was hard and expertly placed.

When he reached “Six!” Mycroft was shouting, sobbing and bouncing on his toes, hissing through his teeth as the hot sensation thrummed across his arse and up his spine. He kicked a leg out and flopped his head down onto the desk to endure it. He stayed bent and writhing, until he felt Gregory helping him unsteadily to his feet. He was apologising repeatedly, tear-stained and flushed, his backside throbbing with cleansing soreness.

Greg enveloped him in a tight bear hug and whispered into his ear.

“Forgiven. All over now. Love you, darlin'…”

“Thank you for coming to fetch me, Gregory,” said Mycroft, brokenly.

“Always will, doll.”

As with all Holmeses, it was kindness that undid them, not pain. Mycroft sobbed into his lover’s neck, believing every soothing word, and Greg clung to him fiercely, as though to prevent him from floating away.

John and Lock sprang instantly to either side of them, petting and shushing and kissing both of their lovers calm. Mycroft was not the only one who needed aftercare in these situations. It was tough being the tough guy too, and Greg was always relieved that they understood. Lock, in particular, made a point of hugging him from behind and nuzzling into his back, grateful as always that this man helped keep big brother safe.

“You always have power, Myc,” said John, trailing a finger down his partner’s long nose. “Can’t be taken from you, by any living thing, human or microbe. Trust me, I’m -”

“A doctor, yes, dear,” chuckled Mycroft, through snotty tears. He wiped at his face, abashed as always to be seen crying, but accepting it as necessary, perhaps even helpful. He turned to catch Sherlock’s wide, watery blue eyes boring into his own.

“Lock,” he began, by his brother stopped him with a finger to his lips.

“Brave Mycie,” he breathed. “Better now. All better now.”

The heavy sensation in Mycroft’s gut left, and he felt unburdened at last. In truth, he felt better than he had throughout weeks of overwork and emotional avoidance, thrashed backside nothwithstanding.

“Oh, ghastly sentiment,” he sniffled, scoffing at himself with an ironic smile. "Snivelling mess."

Greg laughed and ruffled his curling hair.  

“Yeah, I know, disgusting. You all right?”

“Yes, I am. My rear end is a flaming ruin, of course. Six of the very best indeed.”

Greg smiled, and stepped back to look at him.

"Hate to tell you this, but I meant what I said last night. You're going over my knee the night before you go back to work too. Whenever that might be. Give you an incentive to stay off longer, won’t it?"

"Oh! But Gregory, surely you can't expect me to sit in meetings...!" protested Mycroft, wincing at the notion of anything heavier than a feather touching his bottom again.

Greg snorted and nudged him. “You’ll cope. In the meantime, let’s get you in bed again, and I’ll come and rub something nice on your poor arse.”

Sherlock and John gave matching mucky giggles, and Greg tutted with mock-disapproval.

“Can’t say anything round here without someone making it dirty. It’s only my Mycie that’s got any bloody manners at all. When he’s not buggering about with lifts.”

Mycroft scowled playfully, and let himself be led out by the hand. John collected his discarded pyjama trousers and robe, and they congregated back in the bedroom.

The elder Holmes lay on his stomach on top of the bed, and his little brother lay next to him, holding his hand, needing to be as close as possible.

Greg brought over a pot of unscented moisturising cream, and applied it to his lover’s hot-looking, striped buttocks. Mycroft hissed and rested his head in his folded arms as he was tended to, sighing as his sizzling flesh gradually cooled. The sensation became almost blissful as Gregory rubbed soft circles over him, extending the range to his legs, and up his bare back.  

“John, you do me!” said Sherlock, shoving his trousers and pants down and wiggling his pale, unblemished bottom.

“There’s nothing wrong with your arse!”

“I know, it’s perfect. Just do it to be nice!” he demanded, outraged that his command hadn’t been unquestioningly obeyed.

John rolled his eyes, and winked at Greg, before grabbing the tub of cream and setting to work. A bloke didn’t refuse those kinds of orders.

"I’m glad that’s over,” said Lock, guilelessly, as he was luxuriated in his unearned massage. “Really, brother, it was too bad of you. Lestrade has enough on his plate with me. And what if I'd been acting up as well? Nightmare for the poor man. Luckily, I've decided to be very mature for the duration of your illness. But you can forget it next week, I tell you that."

Greg and John both reacted on instinct, reaching out to spank a buttock each.

Sherlock reared up with a yelp. “Too hard!”

Greg pointed at the detective pouting over his shoulder at him, curly locks falling into his face rather too seductively.

"Don't even think about it. I want at least a month of impeccable behaviour off you."

Mycroft huffed, drowsily. "Dream on, darling."

“Both of you,” warned John.

Exhausted by ghastly sentiment, both Holmes boys fell asleep within seconds of each other. John and Greg got them under the covers, and the brothers instinctively curled up together, naked and breathing in sync. They got ready for bed themselves, each taking a side to bookend their lovers as they drifted off.

The next day, Mycroft stayed put, and was more than happy to rest and eat unassisted - still very mindful of his sore bottom - while the household went about its business. Greg went back on shift, Lock disappeared with his laptop. But his partners checked in on him, stopping to chat about a case, or watch a film with him, or just to plant a kiss on him as he read a book.

John collected Rosie and brought her back now the danger of infection had passed. The house became a livelier place, and Mycroft found he did not mind at all. To his surprise, the child would happily sit and watch Ealing Comedies with him, which he would not otherwise have discovered, and he made a note to try her out with Hitchcock to broaden her tastes. Generally, life returned to what passed for normal.

One day later, he was declared fit for shag duty, and started building up his stamina again by bouncing on Gregory's cock while John and baby brother rutted beside them, devouring him with their eyes. Then they swapped, and he took Lock for a leisurely afternoon ride, lying lazily on his side, while Greg had the Doctor against the headboard. And so it went, as filthily as it had ever done.

Two days later, Mycroft was declared completely healthy and ready to return to Whitehall. Despite the ‘back to work’ spanking Gregory had sadly not forgotten about - and the dreadful indignity of being stood in the corner with his hands on his head, trousers round his ankles, to ‘remind him’ of his misdeeds - he felt pretty good. He'd even decided to heed Gregory's warning not to remonstrate with Anthea upon his return.

He felt like Mycroft Holmes again, and he did not doubt his strength. It had been given back to him, by firm, loving hands, and the unwavering protection of the only men in the world he wanted to be vulnerable with. His family. His own little welfare state. The medicinal balm of their care soothed all his ailments.

Such remedies ought to be prescribed for everyone, he thought. Free at the point of delivery; regardless of wealth, or power, or influence; for the good of the nation’s health.

**Epilogue:**

A week after his sick leave, Mycroft Holmes had finally caught up on what he had missed, and was back in the saddle of Government. Various idiotic errors had been corrected; plans at various stages had been initiated, and complicated, and resolved. Cards had been shuffled, and dice loaded. Morons had been fired, and a few genuinely smart people recruited in their place.

Anthea had been presented with a rather splendid cactus. Not a passive-aggressive gesture, by any means. She simply despised flowers, because they made her think of death and decay. Give her a nice succulent any day, she had said, with a fraudulently innocent smile. So he had - in perpetual gratitude for her discretion, and her good sense.

All was as it should be, and Mycroft was feeling rather optimistic and renewed. He even had a bit of a spring in his step. That is, until he received a text message on his ‘emergencies only’ phone.

He checked it with a concerned frown, dreading what he might read. It was worse than he imagined.

 _Fucking disaster, love. Sherlock has just sneezed, and Watson’s threatening to emigrate_. _All hands on deck. Bring chicken soup from the deli when you come home - and start praying. G x_

From outside the office, Anthea heard her boss’s forehead hitting the desk repeatedly – but she simply raised a slim eyebrow when profound, heartfelt swearing rattled through the wall, and got on with her job.

**Author's Note:**

> Lovely to hear from you, darling readers. xxx


End file.
